


brooklyn born

by heli0s



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so sorry, Multi, One Shot Collection, Romance, Smut, This has now become a collection of fucking filth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-24 16:30:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 22,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21341272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heli0s/pseuds/heli0s
Summary: A collection of one-shots with the best boys.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 143
Kudos: 369





	1. never trust a man that can dance (b.b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My first attempt at writing 40s Bucky!

“Never trust a man that can dance.”

The dancehall floor is polished, waxed clean and shiny, reflecting the lights overhead. It’s not the kind of thing you want to spend a Saturday night doing— twirling around some half-man full of pathetic one-liners but Betty and the girls twisted your arm for it.

_You’re such a stick in the mud! Goin out one night wouldn’t kill ya! And don’t give the boys any lip, either! You’ll chase ‘em all away!_

Then, they pinned your hair and smeared lipstick over your mouth. Powdered thick layers until you coughed.

It’s a bad habit, but the straw in your soda pop is flattened and crinkled, chewed and crushed, limp over the cup.

“You feelin’ nervous, doll? Maybe a dance’ll loosen ya up.”

Your eyes dramatically roll along with your head until you’ve craned your neck over your shoulder. “Think you’re slick, do ya? Two eyes don’t help you see when a gal’s trying to keep to herself?”

A soft chuckle, pillowy, short but enchanting. “I see it jus’ fine, darlin’. Just choose to ignore it, is all.”

His hair is combed back and as shiny as the floors. Strong jaw, lifted left corner of his pouty mouth as he tilts his chin down and looks _up_ at you. Blue. So blue. It punches the air and carbonation right from your lungs.

“Name’s James Barnes. How ‘bout you?”

“None ya.” Your resolve has vanished inside those sparkling gems, but still, you put on a brave face. Betty’ll never stop ragging you if you swoon now.

He laughs, low and deep, and spins the hat in his hand around on a finger as you take in the dark green uniform. With a squint, your eyes catch the ribbons on his jacket. Sergeant. Half-man. Soldier-boy. Something pinches inside of your gut.

All the boys are shipping out— and he’ll be one too, drafted to fight. To die. The girls pine and ache for their heroes, dizzy with the dream that their boyfriends leave and return as men, but you’re not so naïve.

“Just one, sugar? I’ll be real good to ya, and if you think my moves aren’t up to snuff, kick me to the curb. I’ll take it best I can.” He winks and your heart pinches this time with the shuttering of his lashes.

“Well… suppose I don’t see the harm.” You chew on your bottom lip nervously, reaching toward his open hand. Lightly calloused, thick fingers nimbly wrap around your own.

He moves like a dream toward the middle of the room— smooth, confident, all charm and spark and suddenly your chest begins to flutter wildly as he spins you. The tune is an even paced one, and you step around him too aware of yourself.

“I warn you,” your heels click, “I’m not fantastic or nothin’…. I got two feet and neither of ‘em are right.”

A smirk tugs at his mouth, “That’s all right, I’ll teach you the rest.”

Your mama told you something once, about men who can dance, but you can’t remember it now. On the edge of his fingertips, you hang, tongue heavy in your mouth as he beams. His eyes twinkle again under the light and he pulls you close, hand resting on the small of your back as he begins to sway.

“You’re funny, gorgeous. I like that.”

“You say that to all the girls, Sarge?”

His hand twitches slightly before it relaxes again, rubbing a subtle circle with two fingers. Shyly, and making him look like a much younger boy, he asks, “Can I write you?”

It’s sudden. Earnest. Takes you by surprise that a man you’ve only known for ten minutes has asked to write letters to you. He’s not pulling your leg, either. The way he looks down and grips onto your waist seems too real to be a simple move to nab a girl.

“I figure...” he breathes quietly, “Probably won’t be a lot of laughing over there. Might as well ask. I think you’d cheer me up a little.”

Oh. He’s done it now, this war boy, tearing your chest open. Twenty something and dewy-skinned, plump cheeked, with a rosy mouth looking so sweet you could kiss him silly. Your daddy was in the previous war, and he came back a hero, sure. But he didn’t come back the same.

He holds onto your hand with his thumb brushing over the knuckles, feeling the faint ridges on your skin.

The song picks up and James Barnes dazzles you with his smile. “Come on now, don’t you know how to jitterbug?” He taps away the previous moment, lively with rhythm. The pinching in your heart digs deeper.

Your feet move on their own, finding the steps laid out easily with his lead. Not once can you tear your gaze from him. The reminder from your ma suddenly arrives when a lock of his dark chestnut hair falls forward, brushing against his brow.

_Never trust a man that can dance._

James Barnes kisses you behind the dance hall that night, a single lamp post shining down on the top of his dark green hat. He tucks a slip of napkin into your palm at the front door of your house not thirty minutes later, the smudge of your lipstick stamped onto his jaw as if you’re sending him off yourself.

“Don’t forget about me, kitten.”

And how can you when he asks so pleasantly? How can you forget that half-cursive scrawl with a pen he nabbed from the boy behind the counter? The first letters come excitedly, and you reply in kind, full of jokes and jibes, keeping him company with your wit. The third letter gets tucked into an envelope with your lipstick sealing the edges shut. The fourth letter is accompanied by a square cut of your handkerchief and a dab of your perfume.

The fifth, your heart, overflowing and spilled for him in the form of a paragraph in your neatest handwriting, punctuated by an uncharacteristically timid admission. _My love don’t come easy, James Barnes. Once it’s yours, you oughta keep it forever. _

He sends back pressed flower petals from France—irises and daffodils and promises to love you with all he is upon his return. _Don’t you trust me, baby?_

Your sixth letter finds your mailbox again after three weeks, still encased in its envelope, accompanied by a shakily written note from someone named Steve Rogers. It takes only two words to shatter you on the front porch. _I’m sorry_.

And as you sit, crumpled over with that frail piece of paper in your fist, your ma slips from the front door and quietly crouches down by your side. She places her hand on your back, rubs in small circles as you cling to her shirt, wishing you had listened to her warning.


	2. tell me a lie (b.b.) (s.r.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from the prompt: "Tell me a lie" -"I love you"

_What year is it? Where are you? What’s my name?_

It’s dark the first time he asks you these questions. The two of you smothered by the filth of a collapsed building, blood dripping from a split on his forehead into your mouth.

_2023\. In … where the fuck are we, Buck?_

He wipes the blood from your nose-bridge and it smears it further up into your hairline. You’re fine, you assure him, but a large welt is forming from where your skull cracked under the falling ceiling. And then suddenly, in the soot grey silence of dust, stars blossom over Bucky’s face and he spins into a million fractures.

The room returns in a rocking motion of planetary misalignment— a roar of primordial birth. Grey, still, but rushing in like a storm.

Your head turns to the side to find Bucky and Steve peering down at you. Their voices are fading away as you waggle a finger. _You guys okay?_

Bucky chokes on a desperate laugh and catches himself against the jet’s wall. Steve kneels and brushes a tear from your cheek. His fists are clenched tight and before you go you hear him spit a long and vengeful string of curses.

-

The trauma lingers and your brain is sending out Morse codes of electrical activity, disrupting its natural frequency. You seize intermittently— at least three times on the hospital bed.

The nurses are slower than he is, so when Bucky gets there first, he follows their protocol and checks you with that annoyingly mundane prodding.

_What year is it? Where are we?_

You gurgle and flip him off. _2023\. Med bay, goddamn it— anymore dumb questions?_

He laughs. _Why are you such a pain?_

You have a question for him in reply. _Where’s Steve?_

It’s immediate, the way Bucky frowns a miserable crescent moon that hangs low on his face. _He’s back in the field, finding the fucker who blew the room out._

Your cracked lips seal themselves shut, the grimace speaking louder than words ever could.

You and he know better than most how Steve changed after the Accords, tuning himself out to every feeling except for the one that keeps him fighting. Bucky knows that when you gaze into some unknown distance, you’re thinking about how your Hercules has transformed into Ares. Gold tarnished into red, blooming blood.

The stars above the compound snuff themselves out by sunrise and Bucky jerks awake with Friday alerting him to your bedroom. It’s midnight again and his bare feet slap against the floor all the way in. Time is a circle now, being asleep and awake feel one and the same, saturated with worry.

His hands are shaking when you lurch back to life.

_What’s m—_

You shudder, _sh-shut the fuck up with that._

A sharp breath escapes his trembling mouth. _I was going to ask, what’s my favorite color._

The same noise falls out of yours. _Trick question, dumbass. Black isn’t a color; it’s a shade._

He stays on the floor for the rest of the night, and after the sun climbs across and makes its way back to the other side of the sky, he comes back and does it again.

In the dark, your sighs become ocean waves. Your hands gripping the sheets of the empty bedside sound like footprints in the sand. Bucky listens, half-asleep, to your whimpering like a slow siren call pulling him into the deep.

The interrogations come more frequently, because the doctor told him you might be experiencing other side effects from the injury. Someone needs to be there, to watch you, just in case. So, he asks you throughout the day all sorts of idiotic things. Mostly because of fear, sometimes because he’s secretly eager to see you smile.

He hasn’t seen a lot of that after the Accords. After Ares, he supposes.

_What’s my birthday?_

_March tenth._

His brows raise in surprise— _I wasn’t expecting that._

_Where’s Steve?_

You catch him off guard. He’s supposed to do the asking. The tile floor of the kitchen holds your tears on a Wednesday morning while your fingers scratch at the smooth surface, securing yourself in the moment.

_I don’t know… haven’t heard since last Tuesday._

Your nostrils flare and Bucky wipes the corner of your eye. He tries to lighten the mood, tugging out a memory of an older day when you were the life of the party. _Tell me a joke._

You stare into the fluorescent light hanging over his dark head. The shadow obscures his cheeks as he looks on. Your mouth is detached even as the silly question slips out. _What is Beethoven’s favorite fruit?_

Then, the end of Friday pitches you over in the middle of a shower. The caddy of shampoo and conditioner flies off its perch and scatters with a bang the same time your knees hit porcelain. Water rushes into your mouth and nose but you can’t feel it.

Bucky rips down the door, yanks the entire curtain off furiously and you, slippery with suds, into his lap. His one hand clears away the broken soap dish, the other turning your head to the side.

_Come on! Come on, come on. Come back. Come back._

Three minutes feels like an eternity.

Your gasps finally wane, and you look up at him from your place on his thigh, leaned back on his palms, breathing hard as if he’s the one who fell. He reaches over for a towel, drapes it on top of your body and pretends like he hadn’t seen anything.

_Who won the game last night? _Bucky grunts. You blink spots from your vision, hand reaching up to find his face, to make sure he’s there.

_S-sportball? C’mon, Buck. Like I fucking kn—_

A long-suffering sigh. His heart feels like it’s about to jump out of his chest, and here you are, being a complete pain in his lap. He tries a different approach.

_Who makes the best lasagna? Never mind– I know it’s me. _His brain is discharging rapid-fire questions, trying to forget the shape of your body beneath the cotton sheet. _What’s your third favorite animal? Who sings that song you like? Tell me about your ma. Tell me a story. Tell me a lie._

You laugh then. The one he’s been waiting for. The first one all week— all month, since your head cracked open. Since Steve left you for vengeance. It’s a clipped sound, not really a laugh, but he takes it eagerly with a fluttering in his chest.

_I love you._

Bucky’s thundering heart stills as your head moves from its sideways position on his leg. Instead of his thigh cradling your cheek, his lap cradles the back of your skull. Beneath him, you peer, lips parted at the beginning of a sentence. He beats you there.

_What? Why would you—_

_A lie, right?_

Bucky nods stiffly. Misses the way you stare at the point of his chin when he tilts back. _You’re a pain, you know that? Guess that’s how I know your brain isn’t knocked loose yet._

Friday dings tepidly, alerting the both of you to an arrival and soon enough, heavy and determined steps are echoing down the hallway. Stiff footfalls, commanding gait.

Steve. Ares.

_You should head back to your room. He always wants to see you first._

A little hum sizzles from your throat as you pick yourself up, letting Bucky steady you with his arm. _Not always._

It gives Bucky pause as he gathers the jagged ceramic bits and soap bottles scattered on the floor. Your voice is small and reluctant when you call his name._ Bucky?_

_Yeah…?_

The look you give him from the doorway half splits your mouth open, showing your teeth. When was the last time you gave him a real smile? Bucky’s brow furrows at the restrained moment pulling itself apart, lasting an eternity.

_Your turn, Buck. Tell me a good one. Tell me a lie._

Infinity lingers on, Steve’s steps frozen in time. Endless like the three minutes you seized in his lap tonight as he searches your eyes for an answer to the unasked question. It hovers and breathes down his back. It’s a secret. A fib. An admission wrapped neatly inside the pretense of a shared game.

He smirks, hopes the splintering in his heart doesn’t show on his face.

_I love you._


	3. close your eyes (b.b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW smutty drabble for the prompt: close your eyes and keep them closed.

Tender taps. Wanton whispers. Sunday night and Bucky is caressing your shoulder with a discreet fondness, slipping his finger over the strap of your lacy nightgown. He slides it down, tugs the fabric loose and off with a smile.

“Pretty girl…”

Bucky moves your hair away from your neck and kisses the jumping pulse found there deeply.

It’s not an anniversary. Or a birthday. Or anything. It’s Sunday night and he can’t keep his hands off you.

“Let’s try something, sweetheart,” he murmurs, making a path down your sternum where your chest expands with a shuddering breath. “Close your eyes.”

He knows it’ll make you crazy because you’ve never been good with following directions. But he also knows the crazy he’ll make you will have you writhing with pleasure— and exactly what he wants tonight.

“But…I want to _see_ you.” You mumble, grasping a handful of his soft hair, yanking lightly. Already impatient.

“Listen to me, baby. I’ll give you what you want if you’re good.”

A soft growl rises from your throat, but you relent, melting into his large hands on your back. “Thassa girl… That’s my good girl.”

A whine. The first of many.

“_Close your eyes and keep them closed.”_

Your lashes sink. Your lips pinch together along with your fingers into a tight fist, but you listen. Something light and silky smooths itself over your face, and Bucky’s lips find your cheek sweetly. A blindfold. Your heart thumps when you feel your ears perk up— trying to recover for the sudden loss of your most important sense.

His touches come more feverishly. A warm calloused palm brushes over your breast, tweaking before he heads south. A low chuckle when you yelp at the sensation. Over your hipbones, he licks a stripe with his tongue, sending a spark all the way down to your toes.

He lays you down, listens to the stuck breath you’ve been holding and smiles into the velvet space between your thighs.

“Good girl,” Bucky croons, reaching to trace a line over your bottom lip. Your mouth opens instinctively, tongue flicking over his thumb. “Oh, baby…” He sighs, muffled purposely against your flesh, “You ain’t gotta see me… you know exactly where I am, don’t you?”

You’re lost in him– his finger, his lips, the way his voice sounds washing over your ears like sea breeze. Your hands reach up to anchor yourself to his arm, sliding up and down it to create an image in your mind because there is only darkness and his disembodied movements tickling a nerve you didn’t know you had. It makes you nervous. It makes you _excited_.

Bucky only smiles again before he takes his arm back, leaving you to clutch at the sheets pitifully. Between your legs is a slowly darkening patch on the crotch of your underwear and he groans at the sight.

It’s Sunday night and he’s just getting started.


	4. let's carve our initials into the tree (b.b)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More angst with pre-war buck. I love himmmm so muccchhhh.

It’s new love. Warm and lustrous. Wrapping itself around his heart and body— all over, enveloped by the light that shines from your eyes and mouth.

Kisses so sweet they make his stomach hurt.

Looks so tender he feels it in his bones.

James Buchanan Barnes never once imagined he could fall so hard for anyone.

Under a summer sun, he stretches his legs, lays his jacket down on the grass and pats the top, making sure you have a spot in the shade. “Have a seat, darlin.”

You snort. Ill manners for a young girl but it makes him smile all the same. His jacket gets placed into his lap as you plop down beside him. “Your coat’s much nicer than this little thing.” You say, “I got two more just like it at home.”

“Darlin’ I’ll buy you a million more. You can have everything.”

You kiss him with a silly grin. Short, like your cap sleeves. Leaves him longing for another.

He leans back and feels the rough bark against his back, reaches into his pocket and brandishes the tool. He loves this spot. It’s where he first held your hand. It’s where he takes you every weekend when your ma lets you go.

_“Let’s carve our initials into the tree.” _

You swat his hand, ask him to put his knife away, but he pulls from your reach playfully. Expertly, JBB is pressed in, bits of wood crumbling onto the grass beneath.

He starts on your name as you pretend to wrestle the knife from him, pitched over atop his lap. The first letter is carved, followed by the first cut of your middle name. Then, a pause.

“What is it, James?”

A smile. A twinkle in his eyes. A peck on your cheek before he blocks the view with his broad back. Scritch-scratches and then your heart swells at the sight.

Your last initial is replaced with a B. And he is beaming like the sun at you. 

“Stupid…” you mumble, dizzy. “You’re— such a.. a dolt, James Barnes.”

“But you love me— don’t ya, doll?”

He gets what he’s been wanting the whole day. Your palm cupping his face, the other hand on his chest, a slow, sweet kiss, sliding down his tongue. Behind him, inside a heart, two names are perfectly etched.

-

Eighty years and a lifetime later, Bucky takes a jog through Brooklyn with Steve, nostalgic for their old neighborhoods, a little resentful at the change and passing of time.

He breezes by the park and pauses, something strangely familiar tugging inside him. A tree stands alone on a patch of dirt, starkly contrasted by the bustle of foot traffic around it. He paces forward, pulled to its shade. It’s faded now, the heart, and a little higher up. Bucky stares, the sting in his eyes confirming a knowledge he had forgotten until this moment.

Steve turns around, finds him behind the trunk. He doesn’t quite know what to do when Bucky bursts into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! <3


	5. take one more step (b.b. + s.r.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Take one more step and I snap her pretty little neck. A little uh... edgy.

Bucky could scream. 

Steve is unfazed.

The goon sneers and blows into your ear— a threat that makes your teeth gnash. He squeezes your throat between his forearm and his shoulder.

_“Take one more step and I snap her pretty little neck.”_

Steve takes the step. Bucky’s eyes are about to pop out of his head when the hand not clasped on you lands on your jaw, turning it sideways.

“Wait! Don’t!”

“Go ahead.” Steve urges impassively, ignoring Bucky’s pleads. “Do it.”

Bucky doesn’t know because he’s still new. Because he hasn’t been with you for five years. Because he hasn’t seen you close up in a fight yet. 

He’s only seen the sweetness, only a tiny spark of a flame behind closed doors when you slip from your clothes and they lay you down and move like one.

Steve knows the bite. He knows the claws and the fury. So he steps again and suddenly his cheek catches the splash of blood from a hidden blade. The dagger retracts, giving him a full showing of how it rips from the soft palate of your enemy.

Poor idiot, Steve thinks. Never stood a chance.

Bucky’s gasp breaks the silence and the thud of the corpse follows.

“D-darlin?” Bucky murmurs when you peer up at him. “Y-you okay?”

A grin. Feral and all teeth- one he’s never seen. Steve slips his arm around your waist, pulls you in for a sloppy kiss, smudging the red from his face to yours.

Bucky’s own blood rushes straight down. Fearful. Aroused.

“She look okay?” Steve smirks. “Bout time you find out.”

You pretend to be shy, take bouncy steps up to Bucky’s surprised face and rub your thigh over his groin where he grows. “Hey, lover. Didn’t mean to keep you in the dark… just didn’t want to scare you away.”

Then, you push his head back into the wall, lick the blood out of your mouth and press into him with your whole body.

Bucky moans— quivering, whimpering. 

He melts like butter against your lips.

Steve purrs. Poor idiot, he smiles fondly, ravenously. Bucky never stood a chance.


	6. don't let me fall (b.b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Please don't let me fall. -Never.

Midnight. Somewhere inside the second hand of sleep and awake, the weight returns atop your chest. Perched and heavy, it crowds the breath inside your lungs, chokes the peace from your brain.

A single bead of sweat—or a tear, rolls down your cheek.

He’s there tonight, catching it with his fingers. 

“Sweetheart,” Bucky whispers, coaxing your twitching limbs. Behind your thin eyelids, he watches the jerking motions. “I’m here.” 

Everyone assumes it’s only him who has night terrors. They don’t know you behind closed doors like he does, they don’t see how scared you get, haunted and chased in your dreams. He knows what pursues you in the dark; he knows it better than most.

Slow hands smooth away the hair from your forehead, slides the sheet off your damp shoulders, growing warm with perspiration. “Wake up, honey.” 

A whimper breaks his heart. Your mouth turns down, lips curving into a frightened pout and Bucky slips his fingers through yours, unclenching your fist. He kisses your shoulder, trails a gentle path down your arm, nuzzles his cheek into your other hand. He has to be delicate. He can’t scare you any more than you’re already scared. He knows what this is like.

“I’m afraid.” Your voice whispers, still wandering through the fog. 

“It’s okay to be afraid. I’m here with you. Keep holdin’ on to me.”

Your hand grips his in the dark, letting him know that wherever you are, his words are reaching. He squeezes back gently and with a final jerk and a gasp, your eyes open. “B-Buck?”

A sniffle. A shudder and your hands release him to cover your face in embarrassment. Six months and you’re still worried about him seeing you like this. 

Sweet girl, he thinks. Strong girl. Trying to carry a burden on your own even when you don’t have to.

“You’re safe.” He says, hooking one hand under your back and turning you over until his front touches yours. He places his chin on top of your head, presses kisses to your hair. 

“It happened again.” Your admission is muffled by his firm chest. “Bucky…” A sob. A shiver as goosebumps break across your arms. He melts into you, his soft lips kissing away newly formed tears. 

You’re not entirely awake yet— eyes sliding back shut, sleep’s grip too strongly clamped down. It had been an exhausting week— rigorous missions heavy on your mind and body. Bucky was vocal about your assignment, railing Steve to pull you back, you chose to go in the end, steeling your mind for flight and the clouds.

Strong girl. Brave girl. _His _girl.

He listens to your breathing slow, little moans escaping when he rubs lines up and down your spine. “Bucky,” a request, “_Please don’t let me fall_.”

He knows it. He knows his own, too. The ripping of his soul torn out with a whip of wind and a crash into ice. It hasn’t haunted him since he’s met you, since he’s known your love, but your own fear still lingers, not yet soothed by his warmth. 

Bucky pulls the cover up, encases both bodies inside the cocoon and kisses your brow. Tender. Sweet. Pouring his newly reformed soul into it. Six months with you have mended the cracks inside him, pieced him back together better than before. 

_Please don’t let me fall._

With all that he is, he’ll return the favor. He swears.

“_Never_,” Bucky assures firmly, “_Never_.”


	7. you should sleep (b.b)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: You should sleep. -I'm not human, therefore, I do not require sleep.

Another night— morning, really— where the blue under your eyes bruises purple with fatigue. Across the breakfast table, Bucky watches your head slide from your fist before you catch yourself and jerk upright. A wry smile as he drinks his coffee. A _look_.

It’s not that you don’t _want_ to sleep, but your mind is constantly running—a hamster in a wheel, working itself to death over mission mistakes and field failures. It’s been a week of this and you’re dragging your corpse around like a sack of potatoes.

In the afternoon, you sit slumped over the arm rest of the couch and gaze out the glass doors into the yard, ghostly visions of the last assignment playing out like an old movie reel. Stuck on two frames of an explosion and a scream and the phantom burn of fire up your leg.

Something nudges your calf— where the wound would be if you weren’t … you.

If you weren’t from the sky. From outer space. The heavens—as he likes to tease.

“_You should sleep_.” Bucky advises, poking again with his boot.

A yawn. Then you turn and regard him under heavy lids, “_I’m not human, therefore, I do not require sleep_.”

With a scoff, he plops down next to you. Vaguely, you feel the cushion dip, his shoulder rubbing against yours. The fabric of his jacket balmy with the heat of him. “Everything sleeps.”

He sounds worried— but you’re not quite sure. He sounds far away.

You lean closer and close your eyes.  
“Evil doesn’t sleep, Bucky… Neither does New York— or so they say.”

“Hush.” There’s no bite in his retort. Only a breath of a laugh.

You sigh, the weight of the week taking over suddenly now that he’s near. Something about him. Soothing. Soft fabric settles over your shoulders and wraps around your arms. Then, a hold. Secure. Safe. Warm, like a fire. Tender, like a lover.

“C’mere, angel.” Deep. Low timbre and sonorous. It runs up your spine and beckons your dreams.

There is darkness and a figure. Blue and silver, holding you by the hand. A stroke of a finger across your cheek. “Even the stars rest.”


	8. a little less broken (b.b)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: every time you touch me, I feel a little less broken

They say love is a burning thing. Wildfire and consuming. Leaves you molten and boneless and aching for the heat again.

Your love is not.

Your love is calm. Tepid and idyll. Summer rain and springtime breeze with the sugary scent of cherry blossoms.

“Bucky?”

Dainty fingertips like flower buds trail across the couch. The background movie fades out into nothing more than faint buzzing in his ears—an annoyance, a pest, now that you’re touching him. Again.

He’s staring—he knows. He’s staring at where your hand is over his and the way he swallows the words he wants to say down is his worst tell. A nearly audible gulp.

You get him alone later with a worried look. In the dim lamplight of your room, he lingers by the door, waiting. You tilt your head, show him the smooth column of your neck and he has to squeeze his eyes shut because his first instinct is to snap it.

His second instinct is to kiss it. Worship the pulse. Follow it back to your heart and marvel at how a tiny red organ inside a cage has enraptured him.

-

Hands trail through his hair, finding paths in the strands of him, rustling gently like leaves in his ears. Bucky shudders, squashes a whine that threatens to rise as he listens to your breath, hitching his reason to every soft exhale. How many times has he heard that sound from lungs on their last breath?

A whisper, then. A thumb tracing over his eyebrow. A smile from the prettiest mouth before you ask, “What’s on your mind?”

What can he say? Here you are looking up at him like no one else ever has. Like he’s not a risk or a gamble, like he’s not a killer, like he’s not a shattered shell of a man.

His tell gives him away even when he says nothing, so he takes a breath, savors the gentle press of your palm on his face, and rests his forehead on your shoulder.

“_Every time you…”_ Your hands drop automatically, afraid you’ve done too much, made him uncomfortable. Bucky grabs onto them, places them on his chest. His heart pulses like hummingbird wings—frantically fast, betraying the quiet of his voice.

“_Every time you touch me_,” he repeats hoarsely, “_I feel a little less… broken._”

A rush of air escapes that pretty mouth he loves. Your arms wrap around his waist, and you burrow into his hair, inhaling the scent of him, laughing with relief.

With a tug, you pull him forward and sit him down on your bed. Plush, satin and pastel sheets like springtime. He’s a stark contrast in all black.

“I don’t think you’re broken.” It’s a sweet lie, but he accepts it all the same from you. Anything from you.

You lean forward, touch your lips to his ever so slightly. “But if you believe so…”

Against his mouth, spring suddenly volleys into summer, blooming heat and radiating gold. “Let’s never stop.”


	9. thought i almost lost you (b.b.)*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: rough sex

“_I thought_—” He grunts, nearly tearing off his pants. Fingers yank your hair until your skull crashes into his collar. He’s behind, spreading your knees apart with a jab of his thigh between. Pushing your hips into the table. Pissed off.

“_Thought I almost lost you_.”

He rips your underwear off. Shreds it to pieces like how his guts felt when you jumped out of the plane first with no parachute. Even Steve strapped in and when he pulled you out of the water you had the audacity to _laugh._

Damn you.

Bucky fucks when he’s mad. Bucky fucks hard and rough and sometimes he thinks you do it on purpose. He fucks deep and twisting like he’s trying to claw you out of yourself.

And maybe he is.

When you’re splayed on top of the table, limp beneath him he can imagine that he’s cutting out all that hurt you buried somewhere long ago. Splice it from your cadaver until he fills you back up with blood and you can spring to life again radiant like he knows so well.

He grabs the flesh of your ass, digs his thumb inside your cunt. Tight, pulsing heat melting his fingers.

Weeks and weeks of sitting in his lap, nose in his hair. He smacks your thigh to help him remember. Nights and nights of tender lovemaking, adoration for him whispered into the sheets and pillows. Sweet, sweet, sweet.

Bucky palms your chest. The place you hold that softness.

Damn it. Where the hell does it go?

He turns you around to demand it back. Thrusts in and jostles a yelp from your mouth.

Hands slide up your side and under your shirt to knead every inch of skin. He kisses your chin, then throat, then between your collarbones in that little dip he loves. Scars. Freckles. Veins thrumming beneath his breath.

“Don’t _do_ that.” You push him back, and you know exactly the kinds of words to fling him right off the edge. The inflection, the venom, like the very thought of him loving you makes you sick.

You drag the wrath out and bathe in its punishment. The goading catches on, and he scrambles for your thighs, yanking you forward. With a grunt, he thrusts back in, burns you raw with heat and fury. His thighs smack against your ass. The table rattles beneath like your eyes rolling back.

“You want that?” He growls, “You want me to fuck you like this?”

You hiss like a wild animal, claw his chest, bare your teeth and his hand grabs your face in retaliation. You want it to hurt.

“I hate this.” His cock is buried to the hilt, “Fucking hate this.” Another crash of bones against bones, bruising against each other.

“Yeah? What are you doing? Fucking it out of me?” A laugh, then silence when he seizes your neck. “Oh—that’s better.”

He wishes he could shut it all up. Slam the open doors of your mouth close and choke that awful rot inside your heart to its death. Instead, he makes you forget the only way he knows how, because right now you can’t bear to be loved any other way.

Damn him and how he loves you. Damn him and how he’ll never love anyone else but you.

He takes his hand off your throat, though. Won’t let you have that fantasy because it’s his cruelest nightmare.

“Look at me.” He wants to see it—he knows it’s there.

He’s close. You’re closer.

A few more, just a few. Bucky’s fingers squeeze your waist to leave reminders for tomorrow, his mouth hovers over yours, enormous blue hazy with lust and ire and the thinnest layer of sorrow, hidden.

Haphazardly moving, now. Frantic and desperate and with a not-rhythm that toes the line of hysterical, he fucks. Hard. And rough. And to his very end, he’d chase it and you right off the edge of the world.

You climax with a shout—head thrown back and shuddering all over and he follows with his teeth sinking into your neck. The both of you careening right off. Bright white. Explosions. The whole Big Bang birthing the universe and leaving stardust in its wake with the dribble of his come down your leg.

Slowly, it reforms. His arms coalesce. Feeling returns to your legs. Bucky rubs his sweat-dappled brow on your shoulder.

“_I thought I almost lost you_.” He mutters. Wretched and wet.

Your chest expands briefly when you take a deep breath. A hum stirs low inside, tremors falling forward. “I think … I got lost…”

He kisses you on the mouth. The first one in a few days and you let him. He holds you tight, if only to know this is real—that you are real and he is real. Sometimes you’re so far away he can’t be sure. A tap on your hip makes you wince, draws both your attentions to the inflamed skin from his grip.

You kiss him again. _I’m sorry._

He returns it softly. _I know._


	10. golden hour (s.r.)*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Smut.

He loves the way your spine seems to glow in the softness of the morning. Bright gently curving streak sending fluttering shocks to his heart. He takes his first few breaths awake from your skin, nose against the notch of your vertebrae.

Steve presses his lips to your neck, smiles into the wispy hair at the nape, nuzzles your locks aside to reveal more shoulder. Back. Cheek. His hands beneath the blanket knead gently, feeling the way your muscles—strong and taut most days, coiled like a spring– yield to him. Lets him love on you easy.

“Baby—” Steve murmurs, kissing more steadfastly, more purposefully now, “Baby.”

A confused noise, a second of readjustment to the morning, to his touch, and then you stir and purr.

“Hey, you.” Voice like warm crackling fire, even with disrupted use from the night.

“Love you,” he says, “Mm, never gonna get tired of waking up next to you.”

His fingers trail the back of your thighs, dancing a tickling path of meandering pirouettes that spark goosebumps over your arms.

A half-hearted cluck of your tongue gives way to a low moan and you shuffle, flush against his chest, bare bodies warm and warming hotter now. Your palm rubs his thigh, savoring the rougher feel of his hairs, contrasting your own skin, grasping his jutting hipbones, the strong plane of his abdomen.

Eager fingers slip between flesh. Velvet and surprisingly slick and wrapping around his digits like syrupy flower petals. “Baby girl,” Steve hums at the way you sigh. “Pretty girl.”

Shudders. You’re weak and boneless, slack and supple, pliant to his fingers and words. Little sweet-talker, America’s glorious knight in shining armor, you never knew he had such a clever tongue until he first slid it against yours in a fevered kiss. Now he knows all your weaknesses, knows every lock and how to pick them until you’re all the way opened up for him.

You whimper with his every stroke. Every plunge. His other hand runs itself through your hair, fingertips in your scalp and you arch like a cat for more. 

“So good,” Steve praises, “Tight around my fingers. All wet for me, honey.” 

“Uh— mhm.” Inarticulate noises. Woozy and wrapped in his affection.

“Let’s stay in bed, yeah?” Faster. Deeper. You groan. “All day. Let me make you feel good.” Two fingers. Three now. Your voice is little more than a choke. Knuckles pressed firmly, nudging harder, he curls and pulls, twists in confident turns. Knowing you. Knowing your body.

“Come, baby. Come for me, lover.”

With a tremble that vibrates all the way to into Steve’s soul, you obey. Into his cupped hand, gushing a little, and with some embarrassment that it happened all so quickly. Your lids flutter open and you bury your cheek into the pillow, contended and shy.

“God, Steve—what a way to wake up.”

Steve grins, kisses the blooming goosebumps up and down your neck, makes you whine again, sensitive and aching. “What do you say?” His clever tongue wonders sweetly, “How’s staying in bed all day sound?”

You laugh. He knows all your weaknesses. How can you say no to something like that?


	11. midnight sun (b.b)*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he’s a midnight flower in your arms, revealing all his secrets.  
NSFW Soft Bucky smut!

He’s a wonder.

Brighter in the night—in those quiet hours when the world is asleep—away from the pressures of other eyes. Illuminated only by an open window, he’s a midnight flower in your arms, revealing all his secrets. You inhale the sweet scent of him, touch your lips to his, drink him down like nectar.

Bucky. Bucky. Bucky.

The boy is a miracle. 

Breathing soft and slow with his face against your neck, chest to your chest. He’s folded and tucked against you, all his power and gravity nestled. A sapling in the shelter of your hold.

“Hey, pretty girl.” 

He arches, brushing the tip of his nose against your chin, up to your own nose, mouth hovering but not quite touching, just feeling each other’s atmosphere. You cross the distance and kiss him, grip tighter now like he could collapse right into you and god, you wish he could. Let you keep every last bit of him forever.

You savor his lips, caressing the line of his cupid’s bow with your own, tongue flicking over the corners of his mouth, punctuating it chastely like a ritual. Bucky moans, hand on the plane of your back moving, fingers scrambling at your spine before he palms your thigh and slots you flush against his torso with one leg hooked around his waist.

It’s unspoken. He tugs at the waistband of your sleeping shorts before he changes his mind and his hands slip into the leg opening of the satin instead, keeping you right where you are. He rucks his own sweats down, just enough to spring himself free, shushing your whines, never letting you get too far, slipping upward, finding your heat.

“Eyes on me, baby.”

“Okay, Buck—_ah_—”

It’s hard to focus when he’s like this. Perfectly warm. Perfectly adoring. Perfectly fitted. So, so bright with the faintest pink bursting over his cheeks. His hips rock easily, stroking you in your favorite ways, angled to where every rub pulls out another gasp. Bucky’s breath soon matches yours in frequency and need.

“Love you, sweetheart. God, the things you do to me,” he rasps. “You make me feel so good.”

His eyes– pupils blown wide, half-hooded with lust and love– immobilize you, memorizing every inch of your face. He smiles. Christ, a smile that could launch a thousand ships. That could blind the whole world.

You curse quietly, blood pounding in your ears, your chest, your throat where Bucky latches on with his perfect mouth, marking you up with his spit and then his teeth until it’ll be obvious to everyone tomorrow what the two of you have been up to.

“Keep going—oh, don’t stop–“

“You want it like this, sweetheart?” He sucks on your collar, on your shoulder, taking every whimper and cry as a command to continue.

They flower all over your chest. Red and purple and swollen bright for everyone to see—just like him. And the very thought of him, of you, lost to it takes you over the edge, calling his name like you’re at an altar in supplication.

Bucky hitches himself deeper, grinding his hips, gripping your thigh, and fills you all the way up until the stars behind your eyes whites out your vision, making you stutter and keen and fall apart.

And then he stills, pulls you even closer, body slick with dew and starlight. The two of you lie in perfect symmetry, trembling in each other’s arms.

From his petal lips, you drink nectar and honey and his sweet, sweet love. And then he drinks from you, and the splendor of his irises blooms radiant in the dark.


	12. big* (b.b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SMUT. It's just smut. Fulfilled a request about Bucky's big D.

BDE isn’t just energy with Bucky. He’s a little nervous because, he _knows, okay? _You tell him, “Mama didn’t raise a quitter— and also, heads up I don’t spit.” 

Okay. Jesus. He’s fumbling with his jeans. He’s pretty sure he’s 200 million degrees hotter than the sun. Will you stop looking at him like that?

You go slow, work him up, not that he needs it because he _really_ likes you. His boxers are still on and you’re using your hands. And then your mouth on the outside of the fabric and if they weren’t black it would be embarrassing how much precome is already on them. He’s so hard if he wasn’t genetically enhanced he’d probably be dizzy.

He wants your clothes off. You leave your underwear on and straddle him, rub up against his dick slow and it makes him jerk up helplessly. You’re a fucking tease and he’s probably going to die like this.

“Impatient?” You grin. And yeah. He is. He hasn’t fucked anyone in — a while— and certainly not anyone so comfortable with it. Third? Fourth? Fifth dates are supposed to be wine and dine and candles and Bucky _maybe_ gets his dick wet. Nope. Watched a movie on the couch and then you yanked him into the bedroom by his belt loops and smiled at him so pretty, saying,

“Let me fuck you, baby.”

It always takes getting used to. You pull your underwear to the side and somehow that’s even hotter than he thought it would be. Slowly, slowly, _slowly_, you sink down, hips rocking to take the first inches of him in.

He groans, buries his face in his hands, grabs on to your hips, your waist, anything to distract himself from wanting too much too fast. You go quiet, lift up, and he’s worried that it’s happened again— too big— and then you slide back down, a fraction further. You’re so wet. And tight. And _hot_. And soon enough, Jesus Christ in heaven, he disappears into the space between your legs.

You ride him like it’s your job, alternating between measured rolling hips and quick, fast, bucking, watching the way he responds, changing tempo to fit his pleasure. He’s a rag doll beneath you, sheen of sweat prickling on his skin, mouth open and gasping. Useless. Even the way the elastic of your panties rub over his shaft is incredible. You kiss up his neck, tug on his hair playfully.

“Hey– _fuck_– slow down, please–”

“Why…?” He can feel you smiling into his collar. “I _want_ you to come. Don’t you like me riding your big cock? It’s so good, Buck. Filling me up so good.”

“Fuck,” one more hoarse breath, “_Fuck_!”

The room spins out of control. He grounds himself by clutching your waist, keeping you still, grinding deep into you. By the time he regains his senses, you’re wiggling again on top of his thighs, kissing his chest, his lips. Open-mouthed kisses with gentle bites.

“Buck?”

“Uh-huh…” He’s woozy.

“What’s your refractory period like?”

A shudder courses up his spine. Bucky laughs, shakes himself alive, pulling up to take you down to the mattress. It’s wet between your legs. Messy and sticky and you lick your lips.

“Alright, sweetheart.” He grins, “It’s my turn to fuck _you_.”


	13. caught* (b.b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More smut I'm sorry. Based off two prompts, Agoraphilia: I’ll write our characters having sex in a public place // Endytophilia: I’ll write my/your character having sex while clothed/partially clothed.

You deserve this, you really do.

It was your fault that you teased Bucky in a stupid, careless moment. Told him _you’re such a horny little boy—can’t keep it in your pants for a single minute. _

But in your defense, he was getting fresh with you underneath a blanket with Steve on the other side of him. What were you supposed to do? Let Bucky grope you in the middle of _The Wizard of Oz_? Never look at Steve in the eye for as long as you live?

Bucky had taken full offense and crossed his arms stiffly. He counted to sixty under his breath before he turned.

_There’s your minute, darlin’. You know what, I bet you’ll crack first._

And he was right.

Three days have passed and you’re cracking like a goddamn egg. Your brain is scrambled. You’re leaking all over. _Leaking_.

You’re so wound up that looking at the microwave vibrating quietly turns you on. It’s embarrassing. You’re possessed at this point. Haven’t had any physical affection from him other than brief kisses outside the door of your room.

So, when Bucky waltzes into the kitchen wearing his best jeans—the ones that make his ass look like the damn moon—you chuck your decency clear out the window and push him into the marble countertop with your entire body.

“Fuck me. Fuck me right here or I’ll die, I swear.”

He bursts into laughter, “Jesus, babe. You’re really messed up about this, aren’t you?” He looks you up and down, your entire body trembling with how close he is to you. “How long do you think I can keep teasing you?”

“No more teasing. You win. I lose. Fuck me.”

“Doesn’t sound much like a loss if you get what you want.” But he stays where he is. You yank the opportunity with your greedy hands.

“Oh my god—” he’s so warm as you rub your face into his neck, inhaling a deep lungful of his scent, mouth open and gasping against his skin. “You smell _so_ good. Mm—God I want you.”

Your hands slip up his shirt, blue fabric falling over your forearms and catching at your elbows. He’s all muscle and glee underneath your palms. You grab and rake your nails down his chest, purring, groaning, desperate and blind with desire for him.

“Right here, huh?”

Bucky’s hand slides between your bodies, heel of his palm pressing between your legs. You whimper, shimmy on it helplessly.

“Yeah, right—ah—right here.”

“Not afraid someone might see us this time?”

“Don’t care. Want you.”

Your hips roll on their own, hands moving now to grip the countertop on both sides of him, caging him in. Bucky pushes his hand further down, back and forth, catching your clit between his fingers, fast and hard motions, toeing the edge of painful as the fabric of your clothes rub hotly.

“Just on my hand? That all you need?”

“No, please. I need your cock inside of me, please. Please.” And you’re already unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning his pants, gripping onto the waistband of both his jeans and his boxers. He’s getting hard, riled up at how desperate you are thinking about him. How uncontrolled he’s made you.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Bucky licks a line from your neck to your ear, grabbing your waist and hoisting you up. The cold sting of the surface makes your burning thighs clench and you give a quiet moan. Bucky kisses your neck, makes a promise with that perfect mouth.

“I’ll give it to you. I’ll fuck you right here in the kitchen. Jesus, you want it so bad. Don’t even care if someone sees, huh?”

You shake your head wildly, pulling your shorts and panties aside to give him room, legs wrapping around him with his jeans still on and everything, and in one smooth motion, guide him in.

And it’s perfect. The sudden stretch after three days. The stiff, hot, thick sensation of him filling you up. You’re squeezing him in pulses, grinding and pleading, gasping his name, already so close to coming with just a few harsh thrusts. 

“Goddamn, you’re wet. Baby, you’re making me all filthy like this.” Bucky’s fingers curl around the back of your skull, mouth on yours sloppily, tongue licking the shape of your lips as he fucks into you. He’s throbbing too, the last few days having been an equal struggle.

Now he’s glad he’s waited it out. He’s never seen you so impatient. So reckless. So obedient. He’s about to blow his entire load at the way you paw at his chest, kissing him back almost violently, teeth clicking against his, sucking on his bottom lip.

“Oh my god, Bucky,” you pant into his mouth, “Oh my god—so good. You’re so fucking good. Ah—gonna make me fucking come. Oh god, I can’t help it— can’t stop—”

Bucky’s eyes are unfocusing. He’s getting closer and closer, and you keep squeezing him, keening and mewling, pleading for him to fuck you through it. So he holds out just a little more, savoring your eyes rolling back, your jaw hanging limply, the way you clench your shorts and panties until your knuckles turn white.

Your breasts are bouncing beneath your shirt. Bucky shoves his hand under your bra, leaning into it one last time before he’s coming with a shudder and a groan much too loud for a shared space. It’s empty, too, making the echo leap into the hallway.

Soft pants follow as the two of you recover from the frenzy, kissing each other in hungry presses. He takes a shallow breath, kisses you some more, full of newfound interest.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby. If I knew you’d be dyin’ for it, I’d do this more often.”

“Please don’t. I couldn’t take it.”

“You’re pretty good at taking it, sweetheart.”

You slap his chest and make an indignant yelp, glossy wet mouth opening and ready to scold him until–

“Fucking shit! You two! This is the—God! Under the blanket, fine. But we _eat _here!”

You and Bucky hurry to fix yourselves, feeling the embarrassment and shock rush all over your bodies at being caught by Steve. You begin to sputter out an apology, stomach and heart cartwheeling until your brain catches up to what you’ve just heard.

“Steve,” you mumble, blinking at him wary and slow, “What do you mean _under the blanket is fine…”_

Steve squeaks a startled noise then takes off down the hall, calling out an incomprehensible stream of apologies and excuses. Bucky only grins as he zips up his jeans, tucking himself back in. He raises an eyebrow at the trail blazed from the kitchen into the dark tunnel leading away.

“Guess I’m not the only horny little boy, huh?”

You groan. Either way, you’ll probably never look at Steve in the eye again.


	14. shape of you* (s.r.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fulfilling more smutty requests. Here is some tenderness akin to "golden hour" with Steve. 
> 
> somnophilia: I’ll write my/your character waking the other up by sex

It’s a treat when Steve Rogers is still in bed past five. Your Spartan, so routine and strict with himself, finds comfort and purpose in rising before the sun.

He likes to sleep with the windows a few inches open—letting nighttime’s white noise soothe him, letting birdsong rouse him. Through diffused light behind thick curtains, the curve of his shoulders and arms are green gray, gently moving with each breath. You hadn’t heard him come in last night, so it must have been later than either of you anticipated.

He only snores when he’s tired. Little vibrations of sound you’ve come to adore rattling from him because it’s your comfort, too. Bucky used to say he’d wake up some nights in Brooklyn waiting to hear that sound—the confirmation that 90lbs Steve Rogers was still alive and not kicked the bucket when he wasn’t looking.

Sweet lover. Gilded half-god. Still just a boy.

Another snuffle of breath and you’re delighted– heart full and matching his, pulsing rhythms of his name, coursing warm and swollen beneath your skin.

Ten-thirty, a travesty of a time for Steve Rogers to be still-supine under a mass of covers. You’d rather wake him to something much nicer than an alarm. So, your hands work.

Flushed against his back, you snake an arm around his waist, up his shirt, hot skin and balmy heat beneath the layer. Steve takes a deep breath, still distant in his restful state. A soft sigh when you rub side to side over the planes of his chest, sinking your fingers onto his sternum, feeling his heart. It’s beating your name, too.

Steve stirs, one knee sliding over the other before he stills again. You move lower, smiling into his shoulder, landing a kiss on his neck. He smells lovely— laid in sheets, light tang of sweat, his fresh shampoo.

Your destination is found past his taut abdomen, over the band of his boxers, beneath the thin navy and brown plaid fabric. Half-stiff already, you give him a tender stroke. Then another—tighter. And another—firmer. More kisses to his neck, your nose in the soft strands of his grown-out hair, curled at the nape. 

Deep sleeper. World-savior. Growing hard and stiff. Twitching lightly. Panting dazedly. Your man throbbing inside your dexterous hand.

Steve’s cockhead is beading precome. He’s moaning louder now, hips arching toward your grip.

“Mm—” raspy.

“Yeah?” You whisper, propping yourself up with a crooked elbow, shuffling so you’ve got more leverage around his broad profile. Taking a peek over the fallen strands of his hair, you find his lids still shut, lashes over the hollows of his eyes, cheeks flecked rose.

He turns, finally provoked enough to wake, eyes opening lazily. He focuses on your face, finally, on your mouth, parted in a smile. A ray of sunlight casts a brilliant line across his shoulder.

“Baby?” Steve licks his dry lips, eyes shutting again when your thumb crooks over his slit, smearing stickiness down, “What’re you doin’—_ah_—” 

“Good? This okay?”

“Y-yeah—_ah_— fuck–” and then because he’s as sharp as the gleam of light cutting over his body, Steve grows alert in a snap. One large hand cups the side of your chin, wedging your palm away from your face, lifting you by the head.

“On top,” he says, breathing hard through his nose, “Get on top of me.”

Anything for him. For a rare morning with Steve in bed, warm and wanting, breathless beneath you. He’s half-wild like this, brain catching up to body, bucking feverishly when you get him inside. Steve’s hair cascades from his forehead. You run your fingers through its length, down his beard, his chest, until they curl around his hips.

“Stay still,” you whisper, leaning down for a kiss to his cheek, the position making him groan, “You stay there, Steve.”

He nods, feeling your mouth all over his jaw and neck, your hands up and down his arms. He’s gasping with every roll of your hips press of your lips. Steve wraps you tightly to his chest, moaning your name, confessing his endless love for you, filling you up with care and affection.

Darling heart. Gentle creature. Mortal and trembling between your thighs.

Steve comes in a rush of litanies—curses and prayers, your name and god’s name, dappled with hoarse _yes—yes—yes_ in between. His brows tilt together, forehead crinkled with the way he squeezes his eyes shut and shudders all over. You bear down one more time, following him over the edge, humming and buzzing in pleasure.

After the descent, he bemusedly looks at the curtains, glowing with the cacophony of sunshine. The birds are melodic and sweet, but he’s woken up to something much sweeter. You kiss him lovingly and settle on top of him for a few more minutes. Steve runs a hand up your back, tangles it into your hair.

He finds comfort and purpose this morning in the shape of your body over his.


	15. simple math* (b.b. s.r.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> voyeurism: I’ll write my/your character watching the other having sex/masturbating // triolism: I’ll write our characters in a threesome. 
> 
> filth with a bit of tenderness. :')

Bucky gets it in his head after the kitchen incident. He’s giddy like a kid in a candy store with the idea that Steve fucking Rogers might be a pervy voyeur under all that perfect virtue.

“Shoulda known,” he says the next night, “I used to take girls back to our place in Brooklyn and he’d be asleep— bet he really wasn’t.”

“Stop.” You shove the heels of your palms to your eyes like you’re trying to blind yourself. You haven’t been able to look at Steve all day. It’s beyond embarrassing; it’s excruciating. Every time you think about it your stomach feels like it’s going to launch itself out of your mouth.

“Think about it.”

“_What_.”

“Think about it, darlin’. You wanna?”

He waggles his eyebrows and winks. Horny little boy? Yeah, Bucky Barnes sure fucking is. Newly discovered, so’s his other favorite person in the world.

Numbers are adding up. He’s counting his coins at the register and getting a nice little indulgence for himself.

“Very funny, Bucky,” your voice comes out shaky.

“Oh, honey,” Bucky corrects, “I ain’t laughing.”

-

Opportunity presents itself in the form of a shared hotel room and two queen beds a few weeks later. You’d forgotten all about his vile teasing—the suggestion he whispered into your ear that night as fingers danced up your belly, breath hot on your neck, invoking a newfound fixation.

_You didn’t mind in the kitchen, baby. _Bites at your earlobe and you melted into his hands. _Maybe Stevie can watch, huh? See you all pretty like this. I know he’d like it. I would too—don’t you wanna make me happy?_

Little deviant. Pushed all the right buttons and you mindlessly blabbered at something novel and vulgar and exciting. _Uh huh yeah—okay—Buck—yeah, I wanna make you happy._

Bucky slots himself up behind you in the queen-size tonight, cleverly arranging your body so you’re facing Steve’s back in the dark. It’s not two minutes after you shut your eyes that he rucks the back of your shirt up, deliberately noisy. Warm hand splayed over your spine, he begins rubbing in small circles at first, then broad strokes following.

“You smell good, darlin’. Hmm… Feel good.”

Heat rushes up to your cheeks because _what the fuck, Bucky_.

“Go to sleep,” You scoot away until you’re nearly falling off, eyes faithfully shut. “Buck—swear to god,” you hiss, “You better stop.”

“Why? Stevie’s awake. He likes it, isn’t that right? You said you didn’t mind, pretty girl.”

It hits like a ton of bricks that yes, technically you said _yeah sure, I’d like that—uh huh—letting Steve watch—_but your last two braincells were obviously named stupid and shameless. Your heart feels like it’s stopped beating as you try to defend yourself.

“Th-that’s not what I meant--" but the prickle of gooseflesh running down your neck gives it away.

A quiet rustle as legs across the scant space move over sheets and beneath covers. You hear Steve turn, feel the warm air radiate from him. The bed only a stride away from your face squeaks quietly. Two feet touch softly on padded carpet.

“What _did_ you mean?”

Slowly, you open your eyes, taking a chance to see his expression, tacking your hopes on the possibility that he’d be disgusted—it’d be a misunderstanding—and the heat in your cheeks, your belly, can all vanish with an apology.

Instead, he’s moved to the edge of the bed, leaning over slightly like he’s magnetized to your side of the room. He’s switched the lamp on, the backlit yellow obscuring his face, but you can see the flame in Steve’s eyes. Flickering. Hungry.

He’s still dressed as he was for bed—shirt, boxers—but his palm is over his thigh, fingers gently curling.

Cock hard.

Immediately, the heat in your belly rushes to your fingers and toes. Catches you on fire. A shudder and a shy nod. You guide Bucky’s hand to your pants.

With a delighted laugh, Bucky pulls down your sweats, your underwear, and then his own boxers. His other hand grips the back of your head, tugging your head until Steve can see your face. You must look a wreck with your heartbeat so jumpy and loud and your body shivery hot under his gaze.

Steve slides his palm over the tent in his boxers and you follow the motion of his hand, up, down, rubbing the tip. He thumbs the waistband, pulls it all the way off, and the sight of him, just as exposed, frantically turned on with that thick, heavy, incredible thing between his legs.

Fuck. Fuck. Oh, Jesus Christ in heaven. _Fuck_.

Steve’s ruddy face blurs pink when Bucky pushes his way in, agonizing and slow. Easy, too, because you’re dripping already. He works leisurely, panting in your ear, tickling your neck with until you writhe. He doesn’t give you all of it. Just a little to keep you needy.

“Isn’t she sweet?”

A hiss from between Steve’s teeth and he nods, the softest of _yeahs _cutting through the tension. You hear him say it again, louder and raspier, and good fucking god, it’s making you _so _thrilled to be wanted like this. Eaten with greedy eyes. Licked by the gaze of blistering yearning.

Bucky stills himself at your entrance, sliding his cockhead up and down your slit, slippery wet and messy. You try to push back onto him, itching for more—so ready for more—but he holds you still with one hand on your hip.

“Christ, Buck—" Steve groans when you mewl at him like he could do something about this situation. Thin cover around your shoulders, hair splayed out on the pillow—a perfect picture. He’d give you anything you asked for, but—he’s not in charge and Bucky’s an awful tease.

The air is heavy with damp breaths. You can smell yourself. Smell Bucky. Smell Steve. Electric and wanting.

Bucky moves. He lifts himself up, puts you turned-around on his lap, and scoots to the edge of the bed. You press your back flat against his chest, ground yourself on your palms, let him spread your thighs wide. Your head is spinning—it’s all too much. Opened up, exposed—and Steve, watching you with his cock in his hand, knuckles white from fisting so hard.

“Fuck,” Steve mutters, pumping himself, eyes fixed on the way you bounce with Bucky inside again, “Fuckin’ hell. God, you’re taking it so good.” Groans as he swipes at more leaking precome and smears it all down his shaft. “Fuck, I could watch you forever.”

Bucky is nipping at your shoulder, at the nape of your neck when he starts weighing his options, counting his coins, cashing in on as much indulgence as he can. Too much of a good thing? Not for Bucky Barnes. He’s gonna take all the good he can get, especially when you’re giving it to him.

“You want her, pal?”

And the blue flame of Steve’s irises blow out black.

“Y-You sure?”

Bucky grins, “Hey. My two favorite people? Doing my favorite thing to each other? It’s simple math, Stevie.”

Steve laughs, looks at you sweetly, chewing on his lip, “And you, honey?”

And what the fuck is it with Steve Rogers looking like he could swallow you whole while calling you _honey_ in the kindest voice that gets you going? And Bucky, too, loving you and him enough to do something so new and exhilarating—so full of trust and care? The way you nod immediately must look shameless and stupid, but you’re nodding all the same.

So Bucky retreats from your quivery body—alight with enthusiasm—and Steve scoops you into his arms. It’s a bit awkward at first, rearranging limbs and getting it right, but he’s gifted with insight, having seen what Bucky does to you. You’re arching and gasping, pawing at his chest, eyes rolled up so high you’re seeing heaven.

“Fuck—” Steve grunts, dragging his cock in and out, hitting firm and deep, “—Fucking hell.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth, Rogers?” Bucky teases until Steve kisses you, instead, “Oh—I like that.”

Steve’s tongue slips in, licking yours, wet and warm. He’s moaning raggedly, noises so foreign and similar to what you hear from Bucky, whispering your name, praising your body. You’re saying his name, saying _good, Steve—feels so good like that—_and it makes him even hotter.

“Gonna come—” Steve groans, finish line in sight, “Fuck, I’m gonna come. You’re so good—you feel so fucking good, baby.”

You hurdle through first, crying out as you convulse around his cock, milking him, squeezing him, throwing him over the edge, too. Steve slows after a few more rolls of his hips, burying his head next to yours, gasping between kisses to your neck. When the two of you look at each other, you can see astonishment and bashfulness alight in his eyes.

So naturally, you kiss him. And he kisses back.

“Buck,” you murmur playfully behind Steve’s soft lips, “What have you done?”

Bucky’s still sprawled out from his position when you peek over, smitten smile lopsided and goofy. His hands are benignly to his side, tissues balled up on the end table, boxers discreetly pulled up before anyone noticed.

“You like that?” He asks.

You nod. Steve does too.

“Good,” Bucky winks, satisfied. “Let’s do it more often.”


	16. hunger* (b.b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> odaxelagnia- biting kink   
i obviously have a trend of writing sex and sacrilege hkshskhs

He must have dreamt you up.

He thinks about it every waking second—the way you stretch in the morning, how you sing in the shower, dance in the kitchen, smile and beam at anyone who passes by—how good you are.

How you love him.

And Bucky Barnes, oftentimes feeling more monster than man, can hardly believe you love him.

All your grace and care, the gentlest of touches, most perfect of kisses. Knowing looks and patient steps, you’re in his head, and god, Bucky worries.

He worries you’ll one day realize all the things about him he’s buried. His claws. His scars. The way he’s digging a home inside your heart with his teeth.

It’s the most careful of dances when he makes love to you. A caged thing, a guarded thing.

You’re radiant and sublime and his insides feel lit up enough to last another lifetime. You’re beautiful and glowing and he could live off nothing but air and the love-sounds you make.

He’s always holding back at the end of each thrust, gripping sheets like he can redirect some of his hunger there— craving your vulnerability, your tender throat beneath his incisors. He wants to trace the jagged dream with his tongue and swallow it raw.

Instead, he wraps the blankets tight like reins around his fist, steers himself back to safety, finds your pressed together lips and listens to his name exhaled from your mouth. Keeps the wolf at bay. Secures himself in the soft.

“Bucky,” you say, and it’s perfect. “Let go for me.”

And before he can make any sort of tongue-tied argument, you press on, “I love you. I trust you. I know you.”

“Sweetheart—” he chokes, bracing himself above, stomach clenching already. Excited. Afraid. Keening for it. “Sweetheart, you can’t—”

A flutter of your lashes as you close your eyes, arching, top of your head into the pillow, neck exposed. Your legs spread wider, swollen-full lips parting, fingertips stroking blindly up and down his chest—gentle, chased by wispy scores of your nails.

Hips rock upward, petaled heat rubbing against him, leaves him shiny slick and yearning. Bucky groans, emergent sounds from his belly, then louder when you do it again. You reach, making a path down his chest, over the strength of his abdomen, through soft curls, and then you hold him. Hard and hot, the line of him, and guide him inside.

“Mark me up, Bucky. Any way you want.”

And you glow like a full moon in the night. Divine all his animal desires with phosphorescent eyes.

Too eager now with permission. Too eager now with the fiercest kind of lust—of love—he lets the wolf go. All for you, and you all for him. He nips at your collar, drowning deeper and deeper. Hip bones rub against hip bones, the noises you make—ragged and hoarse—sending tremors down his back.

He falls onto his forearms, touching foreheads together, noses together, lips hovering until you meet him in a sloppy half-kiss, tongue slipping over his, spit and sweat shimmering across your mouth.

God, he’s so hard. Cramming himself inside your body, torso to torso, as close as he can get because he needs it—he _needs_ it so bad.

He’s blind with it, drunk off it, beginning to rut like he’s in heat, surprised at the confessions he burns into your neck. Catalogues and litanies of _fuck, baby, fuckfuckfuck, god—_growling devotions sinking into your throat, your shoulder, your chest. Sucking inscriptions to be inspected tomorrow, but not yet tonight.

You take all of him again and again, matching his pace, eyes squeezed shut, opening briefly but dazed. Panting and pleading his name, sudden waves of orgasm making you shake and shiver. Then he starts again, easier, kinder, lets the beast work its way back through his skin, tongue sweeping lines, canines pulling flesh.

You sigh and smile. A sacred dream of flesh and blood wrapped around him. Despite his claws and teeth and voracious thirst—still bright under all his dark. Still soft despite his jagged parts.

He kisses you slow. Licks the sweat from your chin, surrenders to the howling of his heart, the immense gravity of your love, the resonant beam of your satellite.

All wolves worship the moon and Bucky Barnes is no different. On his hands and knees, he could pray for the rest of his days.


	17. i need a forest fire* (s.r.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My submission for a writing challenge! The prompt is hiraeth- a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.
> 
> I’m also double-dipping in a smut prompt: scatophilia - talking dirty over the phone.

“I miss you.”

“I know.”

“No… I _miss_ you.”

He chuckles and leans his head onto the headboard of yet another motel dwelling– their stay for the week before they continue to another city, another assignment. Can’t plant his feet anywhere yet. No roots to grow for a while. No sun to warm him.

“How’s it been?”

“Fine enough. Same as usual, gotta keep moving.”

You’re thousands of miles away—disembodied voice in his ear that reminds him of home and his bed. Reminds him of the imprint electrifying his nights—the briefness of a new thing. The wonder of a _good_ thing. A love that sprang slow over time, caught fire overnight, burned to ashes too quick.

“How are you?”

“Mm. Fine enough.”

He hears the squeak of a door, the click of a deadbolt, and the extra chain latching on top. Then, a mattress too noisy to be yours. A familiar ritual now, when you want the little bits of him that he can afford to give. A motel some distance from the compound, always a new one with every call because you’re too careful to make mistakes. Too careful to accidentally give him away.

It makes him smile to pretend that the two of you might be in the same place, sharing the same creaky fucking bed. Maybe breaking it in—breaking it apart.

Steve grits his teeth. Hisses discreetly, but not discreet enough.

“What’s that sound for?”

“Just— in bed. In _a_ bed.”

“Not _my_ bed.”

“No,” he laughs, “Wish I was, though.”

“Remember the last time you were there?” Rustling as you settle down and Steve does so as well, slipping his legs beneath paper thin covers. Imitation—imagination—allowing a domestic fantasy.

He considers it– maybe half a year ago now—and suddenly his cheeks light up. He could easily give out one of those noises again— have you catch him red-handed dreaming of splayed thighs at the edge of the mattress. Him on his knees, one hand in his lap, practically drooling and a mess from the cheek down.

“You’ve got a beard now, huh? What’ll that be like between my legs?”

_Oh, hell._

“Baby…” Steve grinds his skull against the wood, shivering at prickles down his spine, “Baby… Christ. You can’t say that.”

“Are you sharing a room? _Are_ you sharing a room?”

You fucking tease. You _would_ like it if he was sharing a room, just so you could provoke him stupid. Jesus, Steve’s the criminal now but you’ve always been a goddamn minx if he’s ever known one. Whip fucking smart, though, and it broke it heart when you suggested that he’d need someone on the other side, that _it’ll be okay, Steve, I won’t punch you too hard_.

And he only loved you more when you did punch him too hard. Loved you harder when you gave him coordinates to the Raft, the codes, the blueprints lifted from Ross’ files.

He had one last night then, in your room, before it’d inevitably be ransacked and searched—bugged to hell because Ross only trusted you as far as he could throw you, even if you played all your cards right.

It’s why you catch the bus to motels with a burner phone inside the lining of your jacket. Create nonsensical rotations of locations. Schedule calls without a linear time frame. Sometimes a month, sometimes longer. It’s why he misses you so goddamn much.

“Steve…” A drawl of his name that lets him know exactly what you want of him.

“I’m not sharing a room,” he says cautiously, like a warning, “But Sam’s right next door. And it’s paper thin here.”

“You better be quiet then. You’re not Goody-Two-Shoes Cap anymore, are you? Don’t you wanna try phone sex with your girl?” His chest tightens, throat going dry at your tone, at the way you say _your girl_, at the possibility of _phone sex—_as daunting as it is exciting.

“Okay, yeah, sweetheart,” Steve shudders, reaching into his sweats because he can’t say no— he’s already half hard, anyway. Itching for it. “Yeah. You can have me. H-how do you want me?”

“Touching yourself, to start.” A sigh in your voice. He closes his eyes, swallows thickly, imagines your breath over his lips, imagines the way you pepper kisses across his chest. “I always liked watching you do that, pretty boy.”

Steve groans, stroking languidly, building himself up, focusing on the way he can just _barely_ hear the hum in the back of your throat. “_You’re_ pretty.”

A giggle then, snapping him out of his trance and heat overtakes the top of his head. _Ugh_. He’s not good at this. Being laughed at during sex—regardless of how disembodied—never a good sign. “Fuck,” He grumbles. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I like it, Steve; I like you.” Just like that, he’s breathless again. “Hm, wanna know what I’m doing, pretty boy?” And his breath may never come back.

“Remember those little satin panties I wore? Ribbon ties on the side… and you pulled them off with your teeth?”

Of course he does. Delicate lavender and shimmery soft. By the time he dropped to the floor they were already wet in the middle—pastel going rich purple. Your chest– heaving as you leaned back on the sheets, his hands on the thin skin of your knees, stretching willing legs apart.

Steve catches his cockhead with the crook of his finger. Grunts quietly into the receiver.

“Baby, are you wearing those?”

“Uh-huh, just for you.”

“Are you touching yourself—_ah_—thinkin’ about me?”

“Every night.”

_Fuck_. Jesus Christ, you’re bad. He’s gonna blow his load and the call’s only been five minutes.

“What—” another shuddering breath when he grips a little too hard, “—what do you think about me doing?”

You sigh again, whimper like a little punctuation, sheets rustling. “I think about your tongue and how wet you make me…Steve,” and your voice is so low, so needy, “I wish you were here, kissing me hard, Steve. Fucking me harder.” And the picture in his mind of you, so pretty and open, wild at the mere memory of him—

“When you get back,” and there it is, egging his own fist on to match the pace of a subtle and steady sluiced-up rhythm, your fingers working over, inside, back out, twisting and turning. “When you get back, Steve. I’m gonna let you know just how much I miss you.”

He’s hot all over, chasing the ghost of your doting kisses, the phantom touch of your skillful hands. “Jesus, sweetheart.”

“Yeah? You gonna let me make you feel good when you get home?”

“Yes—_yes_.”

“Keep going, Steve. Think about me riding you, baby. Slow at first, how you like, taking you a little bit at a time. You’re always so hard.”

Always for you, yeah, he is_._ And as much as he loves tasting you—as much as he could spend eternity and a half blessed between your thighs, dedicated to those noises you make when his tongue slips over your clit—his fingers knuckle-deep inside—the way you move on top of him is another sacrament altogether.

Steve jams the phone between his ear and his shoulder—neck cramp tomorrow be damned—and uses both hands. Forgets for a little that you’re not quite there.

Slow, like you said, at first, listening to your recital, the chorus of his breath an applause.

“Now, faster.”

And he’s lost in the roll of your hips, one hand on his chest, the other gripped tight around his shoulder, nails carving crescents into his skin because you need an anchor. He’s lost in the way his heart pounds the sharper the cuts because it means you’ve let yourself go. How you scramble for his fingers next, lacing them through yours, squeezing him there and everywhere.

And oh, how exquisite you look with that sheen of sweat across your chest. Hovering over him like a goddess and fucking him like a wet dream.

“Baby,” red lip pulled pale between his teeth, hands working in tandem—imitation and imagination constructing a well-oiled machine in your absence. “Baby, fuck. Miss you on me—miss you fucking me. _God–_”

“Yeah? Gonna come?” You’re panting, too, noises high and obscene, the background echo of your hand growing more frantic and unrestrained. “Me too, pretty boy. I want to do everything with you—have all of you. Your hands, your mouth, your cock.”

“Yeah. Yes,” he babbles, “I wanna give you everything.”

“Come with me, Steve—come on, baby.”

And it’s all so fast. Your words. His words. Your hands. His hands. He’s barely finished rucking down his sweats, pulling up the hem of his shirt last minute before his eyes roll back behind his lids. He’s spilling out, over his fist, up his clenched abdomen, entire body tight, panting heavy and hard as he tugs at himself a few more times, breathing and listening, heart still clobbering against his ribcage when you whimper one last time.

The comedown is aching, then. His eyes flutter open. Heat smothered cold and lonesome like those ashes. His neck hurts. His heart hurts.

“Steve,” and he hears it in you, too—the same ache, the same want. Like at the end of every call you’ve made to him in the past six months. 

“Steve,” you say again, “It’s okay. You’ll be back soon enough. You’ll have me then. Every night if you’d like.”

Of course he would, but he can’t voice it now, not in all this dark, not when the hurt is bubbling up in his throat, not when he loves you so much he can’t stand to hurt you with its sound.

“Look on the bright side, you lawless fugitive. Least you know how to have phone sex now. Cap would _never_.” He laughs at that, happiness like tinder sparking fast from a flame. “You’ll be home soon.”

Home. _Home_. A place with his bed and his girl. Planting his feet down safely. Growing roots in that rich, soft soil, sprinkled with ash. Tended to by the warmth of your touch. 

“Yeah. I will,” he says, and the fire chases away the dark.


	18. bright whites* (s.r.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angsty smut as per a request! With Nomad Steve.  
Listen to Kishi Bashi's "Bright Whites" for lyric inspiration :')

It goes to his head.

The blue wall. The yellow lamp. Somber shades of orange and grey-green where they touch like a muddy watercolor bloom. Splayed under paper-thin covers, your crown dipping off the edge of the bed, throat laboring with every gulp of air. A stormy midday nap where neither party quite gets any sleep at all.

Kisses to your collar, your breasts, he slides the sheet down with his nose, savors new warmth of exposed skin—your belly, your hip, your softness. Hands find each other, one of his on the flesh of your waist.

Steve’s dizzy on it. Selfish for it. A love he never imagined he’d have—a love he’d stopped yearning for long ago. But here you are, beneath his body, and he’ll never stop feeling star-struck at the sight.

“Baby,” he sighs, kissing– kissing, _kissing_– can’t stop his lips from roaming, can’t stop his tongue from tasting. Left, then right, back over again. Drowsy meandering paths, curving and bending, pleased when you arch into his mouth, forever wanting more.

Steve buries his face between your legs, smothers praises between your thighs.

You shudder with the first graze—featherlight—chest rising and falling, body humming, eyes glazed over. He does it again—a little longer, a little harder, pressing in, up, where he knows to. He kisses you there like he’s kissing your mouth—tilting his head barely, slotting over the seam. He’s dedicated, takes his time, treasures every shudder, every flavor.

“Can’t get enough of you,” he says, “Gotta keep you all to myself.”

He wants everything from you. He loves everything about you. Your eyes. Your smile. Your light and loyalty. How you wrap yourself around him and all his obstinate virtue, how you don’t mind that it’s taken you to dimly lit places beneath rainclouds. Under itchy blankets in temporary homes.

A tug, fingers still locked tight, and you tell him where you need him.

Steve’s beard is damp when he comes up, bits of wetness shiny on his cheek and chin, but you press your lips to his all the same. He guides himself in, reveling in your warmth and the way you whine—airy and delicate, memorizes your face turned up-side down and blissed out.

He matches the pattern of the rain. Tepid, at first, barely falling into your body, savoring the slow drag and the sparks rolling to the tips of his fingers and toes. But he’s greedy for it—all those pretty sounds you make—how you suck in and cry out when he takes you to the edge and lets you go careening into the stars.

So he moves faster, hips slamming into yours, releasing your hand to support your head, bracing himself above you.

“I want you looking at me,” he says, “Let me see you, sweetheart.”

So you do, blinking through the darkness and find him like a beacon, as he always has been, as he always will be. His long hair falls to one side, ashy fair, suspended and rocking along.

“’S that good? Like this?”

“Steve—” Choked out punches of sound, pitch rising and falling as your face twists, sweat collecting on your brow.

“That’s it, baby.”

“_Steve_—"

On the precipice of an incoming storm, thunder rolling outside the bed, above the building, and rising, too, in Steve’s belly, he works into your body, heavy-lidded and transfixed on your beautiful face. Deeper until you’re shaking, pulling your legs up over his shoulders, getting him closer, closer, _closer_.

His toes curl.

You shatter under a splinter of lightning. It bursts across your skin—a bright halo of purple—before it’s gone, chased by the explosion of swollen clouds.

Gasping, keening, you turn your face toward his forearm, but he nudges you back, gets a better grip on you. And the way you look—struggling to see straight, half-sobbing his name now, helplessly writhing beneath him for more contact, for another summit to fall from—god, all the stars could align and he wouldn’t give a single fuck about anything other than this.

Another crash and the earth trembles. Your open mouth is panting for more. He takes this image—collects it inside his heart. Another one. Bright whites like camera flashes and he clings on to this one, too.

He kisses that open mouth, kisses your throat, feels it twisting in his hollowed chest, that covetous guilt.

“Baby—sweetheart—"

A pretty smile just for him to see and he drinks it up with dazed and devout eyes.

“I’m yours, Steve. Always yours.”

-

It’s torrential. Spiraling wind and water hitting the windows like gunfire, splattering like shrapnel. He curls around you beneath the blanket—newsprint flimsy—and he hates it, god he hates it. You go quiet but he hears the swallow in your throat. Smells the ache in the air through must and mildew.

“It’s just a little bit of bad weather,” he says, shifting his weight, “It’ll pass.”

You hum a strangled sound of agreeance. His strong girl—won’t let him see you cry, won’t let him have another thing to burden himself with when all he has are burdens now. When world is howling outside, astray and gone off its axis from the sun and made an enemy of him, writing him on the wrong side of history but you know the truth.

You rest your forehead against his chin, knuckles trailing through his beard—that necessary disguise you’ve come to love because it’s his, because it’s him. You rearrange suddenly, take a deep breath, and shuffle until you’ve switched places and he’s the one resting on your chest.

He tries to look up, but you turn him away.

“Hey,” Steve says, finding your hand, “Doesn’t matter what happens—outside, tomorrow, with anybody,” he grips your fingers tight. Grips you even tighter. “It’s you and me. Just you and me.” Because he’s selfish. Because he took you from a perfectly domestic life, in a safe and warm home with sturdy walls and cotton blankets, from sugary sunshine and brought you here. Some sad destiny stripped naked to its very skeleton, and who knows when either of you will really live again.

“Just a bit of bad weather,” he says again, cheek on your breast.

“I don’t mind it,” you reply, the sound vibrating through your skin.

He gets to look this time, his brow crinkling a little from this angle, corners of his lips lost in the furs of his beard. You kiss his eyes, his lashes, tell him you love him, and Steve could weep.

You stroke his blonde head, turning golden hairs in gentle spirals, and he listens to the beating of your heart like rainfall on a roof.


	19. antisaint*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1.1k words. Erm, dirty talk, bottom!Steve– also getting finger facefucked, and come-eating?  
Please stop reading if you are not 18+

Steve’s shield symbolizes the kind of idolatry you want to destroy some nights.

Hijack the ivory points of your lover’s brilliant star and stab him to death with it.

Well, sort of. Maybe just within an inch of his life—a quick reminder that there’s more to him than being humanity’s moral paradigm and savior. That the immeasurable world he’s sworn to can exist in smaller spaces because sometimes he forgets.

It’s fine. 

He’s stubborn and righteous but you’re the perfect foil. Proven time and time again to be the only vice in Captain America’s virtuous armor, you’re so deep in his head he never quite sees you coming.

-

Home late from another impromptu mission, he stills at your presence in the hallway. There’s grime smudged across his cheek and his hair’s awry from his helmet.

“Take it off,” you say coolly, “Everything.”

And his spitfire mouth could argue until hell freezes over—but never with you.

Steve’s bare ass hits the bed not ten seconds later. The candlelit bedroom’s glow paints your skin like a sunset—a goddess of the most devastating kind and Steve turns mute at how you quickly you unravel him.

He’s transfixed by the way you move—your expression dark and smooth like an inbound storm. You crawl into his lap. You don’t let him touch you.

“You’re not Captain America here,” you say, voice vibrating down his spine. “Not anyone’s defender here.”

“Is that right?” he stutters, feeling the blood rush straight down, dick flexing against your inner thigh. “What am I, then?”

Still stubborn, he tries it with a smirk.

You lick the slope of his neck and Steve _whimpers_. _Nope_.

“You’re nothing,” you shrug, “Other than mine.”

His breath catches in his chest, fire igniting in his belly—your words, the spark. Your certainty, the gasoline. He’s utterly fucked.

Humanity’s moral paradigm—the pinnacle of strength, but you whittle him down to a trembling boy.

Relenting, Steve nods quietly and you reward him with a kiss. Deep and deliberate while one hand comes up to grab his jaw. Your plush lips contrast your firm hold, and he’s moaning louder than he realizes. That sharp tongue he loves so dearly slips over his, kitten licks balanced by hard sucking. His entire body could melt into the sweet cavern of your mouth.

You lift your hips, letting him spring free before angling _just_ right. You rub against him slow, watching the way his lips part and his eyes glazing over. A few more times—with his cockhead barely catching inside your heat before he pops out—and Steve’s on the verge of losing his goddamn mind.

The pulse in his neck is jumping like a stray flare and his chest is heaving—he’s two hundred pounds of enhanced muscle atrophied under your touch.

The only thing working on him is his dick—and it’s _working_, alright.

Maybe it’s his job—commanding others. Maybe that’s why he loves it so much.

Maybe it’s just you. His wildest wet dream come to life—filthier than sin with a face like heaven. Loving him so damn hard it makes him dizzy.

“Eyes up,” and he tries, but his lids are fluttering. “Say you’re mine, Steve. Mean it.”

“Baby,” he’s not quite sure if he’s even speaking English—or out loud—but he’d do fucking anything to get back inside you. “I’m yours, promise. Swear it —all yours.”

Your finger pushes inside his mouth, hooking over his pretty bottom lip, pressing against the soft inner flesh of his cheek. Steve holds your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating away, drool sliding down his chin as you seize him roughly.

With a devilish smile, you finally sink down, bit by bit—so tight and perfect—rolling your hips. Once. Twice. Three times. Again. Again. Again.

“Yeah?” You croon, “Like that? You like being mine?”

He’s delirious, trying to balance sucking on your fingers and bucking up into your cunt, entire being on the edge of collapsing like a dying star and going supernova. Uncontrolled heat eating him up the harder you ride him, the nastier you talk. He’s whining and whimpering. Stuttering and begging for his life.

You make him powerless. Nothing more than a speck of dust drifting through the infinite vacuum of space. And, god, isn’t that something incredible.

“You’re gonna come, aren’t you, baby?” You wonder sweetly, hardly a hair out of place, completely immaculate and ethereal even as you drive him to the point of oblivion. “You’re all swollen up, Steve. Does it feel good?”

“Ah—_ah—_ ”

“What’s that?” Your finger digs further, adding more until only your thumb and pinky curl around his jaw.

Steve gags, choking lightly and it shouldn’t make him so fucking—_hot _that you’re fucking his mouth, but he doesn’t care. He’s so close, just a hair-thin line away. His heartbeat is in his throat. His ears. You’ve never looked so fucking beautiful—so otherworldly. He’s a mess—he’s falling apart—you’re everything, everywhere. He could die being ruined by you and goddamn, it’d be fantastic.

Steve Rogers—Captain fucking America—babbling like an infant, obedient and useless in your arms. Fantastic.

You take your hand out of his mouth and lick your own fingers clean. You’re bearing down on him, wet and sticky between your thighs and over both of his. The sound your ass makes hitting his legs scribes itself into every atom in his body.

“Good boy,” you whisper, “Good boys get to come, don’t they?”

“Yes—yes— I’m good, baby. I’m real good.” And this must be how the world was created. Stars start colliding right in front of his eyes, wheeling off into pure white explosions. His hands are reverential—calloused palms reading your skin like sacred braille. Every word speaks of devotion.

“Okay, Steve,” you sing, “Let me feel you—give me all of it.”

“Yes, baby, yes. All yours.”

With a few more frantic thrusts, offbeat rhythms of his hips and breath and Steve shatters entirely, hitting deep, spilling inside of you. He buries his face into your chest, mouth open and gasping against your skin.

His entire body shakes and quivers, and when the earth shackles itself together again, you’re all he sees.

“Fuck,” he pants, burning pink like a newborn, blinking the spots from his vision, “_God_.” And everything feels brand new—like he’s sloughed it all off—the shield, the uniform, the mantle. Nothing but you and him, and the universe behind your eyes. Two bodies somehow infinite.

You remind him with your mouth to the shell of his ear, kissing his neck, his jaw, his chin. You remind him with your hand cupping his cheek, your smile like the promise of eternity.

Steve lays you down, your name a prayer overflowing from his lips. He spreads you out like an angel and tastes himself reborn between your thighs.


	20. bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 400 words about Steve buzzing off his hair.

Steve’s bad boy streak ends with clippers and a damn mess in the sink one Thursday morning. You stick your head through the doorway baffled at the man staring back at you in the mirror. 

It’s gone. His two-years-fuck-the-government-mane is sheared off in clumps and his eyes are electric in his face when he catches the lump in your throat bobbing erratically.

“What possessed you?” You mutter, “Steve, the _mess_. The– what prison did you escape from?” 

A woefully pathetic attempt at hiding the sudden heat in your belly.

“What d’ya think?” He raises an eyebrow, lips pursed together, hint of a smirk on the left side. He brushes the bits of hair from his neck, frowning when they only stab into the fabric of his shirt.

Like it? Uh. No matter how hard you try, you conjure precisely zero words to describe how much you like it. His roots are dark and blunt, melting into his beard, fringe of his former grown-out hair no longer framing his neck. He’s a powerful outline of pure fucking man and your guts are fluttering so rapidly you might shout.

“Shoot,” he mutters, fingers picking off strands poking him. Another quiet huff and then he’s grabbing the back of his neckline, tugging the entire shirt over his head and off into the sink.

You brace yourself against the door frame, knees buckling. “Cut that out,” you say, “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“So you _do_ like it.”

“I’m turning you in. You’re _persona non grata_ to the government and to me. _Jesus_,” you breathe.

He rounds in on you, bad boy streak apparently not gone after all. A roll of his strong shoulders and he’s stroking one palm over the top of his head, fingers curling over his scalp.

“I know how much you liked grabbing my hair, sorry about that.” He doesn’t look sorry at all. Not one little bit as he looms closer, knee nudging your legs open. Steve presses his lips to your brow, then cheek, the taste of your anticipation near palpable on his tongue.

When he lifts his thigh and you on top of it, you make a helpless noise high in your throat. Completely immobilized by him.

Your hands fly to his neck, habitually gripping—this time at nothing, as he expected. He shakes you off and you defeatedly settle on placing your useless hands over his chest. Nothing to control him now. Nothing to do but whatever he wants.

“Hope you don’t mind the mess too much, honey,” Steve promises, “I’m about to make another one.”


	21. crystalline* (b.b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You teach him how to want things again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Instead of attending to the rest of my WIPS, here’s 1.6k words of Bottom Bucky and Service Dom reader. Throatfucking. Erm. Cathartic crying. *WARNINGS*: Bucky working out trauma.

You teach him how to want things again.

His pieces from the past, the joys he used to have taken too soon— you tell him he can have it all back.

It started with food, predictably. No longer being tube-fed slurry, Bucky quickly embarked on discovering all the new flavors of the 21st century.

Chocolate alone was a month-long passion as he attempted to scrub out the standard issued combat rations haunting his tongue. Chalky cuts like cold pressed gravel— fuck that. The first time you broke off a square of unroasted, dark, sprinkled with Himalayan sea salt chocolate, Bucky’s head hit the back of the couch with a pathetic mewl and a million things rushed through his mind of all the ways he could keep feeling this good.

Sleep came next— something he thought he’d had enough of, but the difference between getting perma-frosted every decade and lying face down in whatever memory foam’s made out of is lifetimes apart.

Bubble baths. Streaming apps. Nice clothes.

Attention and affection. Kisses. Braids in his hair. Tickles for extra laughs. His ego’s in overdrive because he has half a thought about anything and you’re fulfilling it like his personal genie. You say he needs all the dopamine he can get and you’re gonna give it to him.

And you give it to him in _spades_.

Orgasms. Jesus fucking _Christ_, he’s spoiled rotten.

Morning sex, afternoon sex, sex before bed. Blindsided in hallways and under conference room tables. The compound pool’s been properly christened more than once, and if Tony ever found out just exactly how many of those precious luxury cars have seen the imprint of Bucky’s ass, he’d set them all on fire.

But, reconciliation comes for him eventually. Spend long enough feeling all good he figures it was about time he starts screwing it up. He turns greedy, he starts wanting for too much. His girl’s an insatiable little beast, but even beasts have limits.

-

Bucky went shy when he asked, stuttering about how _it’s okay if you didn’t—if you weren’t—it’s kinda strange_— but you’d put your hand over his and tilted his chin up.

“Bucky,” you said fondly, “Baby,” and then a sweet smile curled over your pretty pink lips like spun sugar, “I’d eat your ass like a five-course meal. I’ll let you fuck me on the moon. What is it, huh?”

He could’ve kissed your dirty mouth silly.

“I want you to use a toy—"

“We do all the time.”

“—on me.”

And that sweet candy pink smile turned red hot and wicked. No limit in sight.

-

You approach the bed like a fever dream and all the blood in Bucky’s body congregates south.

Nothing on but the 2-day-shipping-because-the-phone’s-a-genie-too leather harness sitting snugly on your hips and a grin. The heaviness between your thighs hangs like both an offering and a weapon.

He asked for it. He wanted it. Just—maybe, to start— can _you_ be rough with _him_. Then, stuttering once more because he doesn’t know how to justify why. It doesn’t make any sense and it’s hard to say out loud that with all the things you let him have, that after nearly a century of being out of his own body, he… wants to give it away.

He’s messed up, baby. Sick down to his rotten core.

You only shushed him._ If it’ll make you happy, I’ll rough you up real fucking good. No why’s necessary._

Fleshy weight brushes against your inner thigh, swinging idly from one side to the other. “This okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, still dressed at the edge of the mattress, skin beginning to prickle, nerves taking a hard left into arousal. When your hand finds rough landing in his hair, he thinks he must be the luckiest bastard in the entire world. 

Bucky drops on his knees like dead weight, nearly tearing off his clothes, feeling the upsurge of heat in his cheeks and chest. His eyelids are fluttering, your face going fuzzy but he can still see that look of adoration you reserve for him.

He’s pondering if that old saying is true—if there can be too much of a good thing, if he’s become spoiled sick, or if he could overdose on pleasure when you start thumbing the edge of his mouth.

“Pay attention,” you say with a glimmer in your eyes. “Open.”

He’s tingling when you put two fingers in, moving around his tongue, scissoring them against his inner cheek. They explore for a while, bolder each passing second. He can tell you’re getting excited too, your chest heaving gradually, watching him with curious intent.

“You like this?” You ask, lip between your teeth, and Bucky nods, leaning further in, spit following the path of your hand down to his neck. You palm the cock like it’s always belonged to your body and he’s mesmerized at how it rises from your grip, moving over his face to rest on his cheek.

“It’s big, baby.” You warn, full on now. You stroke the outline of his jaw with it, leaving a burning path in its wake. “You sure?”

He quietly likes that you ask—honey-toned and patient, needing to hear it, knowing that he needs to hear it from himself. All those things he’d been made to say with his body and not with his mind.

Now he gets it back, as you said. Gets a part of himself back, too.

“Yes—_ah—_yes.”

Bucky’s words are slurred into your hand, but he’s begging with his eyes. _Yes. I want it. Please let me. Please make me. Please fix me._

You replace your fingers, sluicing up the cock with his spit. Then, you fuck his mouth slow, feeding it to him inch by inch before dragging it away. Bucky’s lips are quivering for more, jaw slack, panting hoarsely. He feels overcome at how you stand over him, mesmerized by him, too.

“Yeah, honey,” you croon, and Bucky’s heart swells with pride. “You’re doing so well, pretty boy.”

He’s licking blindly and sucking between ragged gasps when he attempts to say your name, knowing full well he’ll never get the whole word out before you wedge back into him. And god, it’s hot. It’s dirty and filthy and so fucking sweet.

You grasp the base of his skull, keeping his head still and laying into his mouth rhythmically. The cockhead hits Bucky’s throat, pushing into the soft palate, reaching further. His eyes are rolling, whimpers catching where the toy ends, caught in the breath of air in his mouth.

“Take it, baby,” you command, and Bucky gags. One hand scrambles for your thigh, other clawing his own, pressing red crescents into the flesh. It hurts. It hurts good like it never did before and Bucky chokes it down, eyes squeezed shut now, tears prickling from the ducts and collecting at the corners.

“Oh, you’re so good,” and his body just keeps lighting up. “You good boy. You perfect, perfect boy.” And he’s nodding desperately, needy, gut coiled tight like a spring.

“So fucking dirty,” you hiss, pulling hard on his hair, “Look at you— leaking all over yourself.”

He is. He’s a goddamn mess, sticky lines of precome down his shaft and collecting at his base.

“Drooling all over my cock like this. You’re hungry for it, huh?”

“Uhhngg— _hnnng_—” He moans weakly at the things you do to him and for him.

“That’s right, you are. Keep going, show me how much you want it.” Jesus, the way you make him feel— like he could be exactly who he is and never have to apologize for a goddamn thing. Broken and ruined but you’d still give him the whole fucking world.

The noises Bucky’s making are muffled and obscene as he fists himself, shuddering and pumping erratically. One more final drive from your hips and he’s bursting at the seams, shattering to pieces, coming with a strangled cry.

You don’t let up, taking his throat with unrelenting force, watching him sob and fall apart. He’s going limp in your clutch, letting his eyes well up like pools, your smiling face so beautiful in the crystalline light.

If he’s sick, then you must be the fever he can’t sweat out. The fire burning through his bones until he’s nothing but smoldering bits of debris afterwards. Grains and soot of him floating in the steady flow of your faithful current.

When he’s made a perfect mess of himself, come-covered and quivering, you finally let him breathe again, pulling out wetly.

“There you go,” you say, kneeling to kiss his panting mouth, “Did that feel good?” 

Your lips are a cool balm on his swollen ones and Bucky hums a response, body still thrumming. “Yeah,” he sighs, sensitive like a wound, raw and open and tender, “Real— good.”

You rub his back and run your fingers through his hair, letting him rest in your arms. You wipe away the tears on his cheeks and over his trembling eyelids.

Gentle words tumble from your lips. Promises of love and of good memories to replace the bad ones. More kisses. More affection. More reclamation.

All those little granules of fractured time, you collect in the soft surrender of his mouth. Wet and salty, they fall together there, and Bucky feels himself clicking into place. Perfect and whole and treasured like an iridescent pearl.


	22. adorn* (b.b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> someone on tumblr said, "bucky with rings" and my guts went, "yeah"

Bucky’s rings snag your skin when he wedges his hands between your thighs.

“Sorry, honey,” he says, but he’s not, because he knows you like them. Little ornaments to adorn him because he’s beautiful and you love that he’s getting them for himself.

The boy’s got style— black onyx situated inside polished silver on his left, tungsten on his right and when he’s feeling a bit bolder, he slips on a few thin gold knuckle bands.

They click against each other tonight, finding their destination. After dinner and on the road, but he’s still hungry for something else. One hand grips the steering wheel, other wicked and busy.

“Bucky—!” You swat at him, hissing abruptly when he hooks two in, thick and fast— a few perfect strokes. You clench your jaw because goddamn it, he feels good and you’re liquored up and yeah— hot for him— but even on an empty road you won’t risk it.

His handsome side profile is split open with a grin. Bucky licks his lips at a red light, slipping back out of you, thumb brushing over slick fingers.

“Looks good on me, huh?” He asks.

“Get a few more,” you suggest with a distracted sigh, settling back down in your seat, quieting your desire.

“Honey,” he says, lips gone shiny wet, “I was talkin' about you.”

He puts his fingers in his mouth, sucking until they’re clean and you wonder if you can last the ride home or if you’ll have to make him pull over right the fuck _now_.


	23. pagan poetry* (b.b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey-o! After nearly 3 months of being a complete disaster, I … did a thing. Very much my usual brand of filth. Thanks for sticking around as I continue to navigate this impending sense of oblivion!! 1.6k words of bangin’ Bucky Barnes. Yeeeeeeahhh. 
> 
> Warnings: Smutty smut & heathen shit, what else is new with Helios?

Steve asked if you were religious once.

It was an off the cuff kind of question, prompted by something you can’t remember now—silly banter over drinks and a background party, perhaps. Both grown weary of entertaining a crowd of strangers, etiquette spent nearing the night’s end. You’d shrugged lazily and prefaced that it’s hard to shake an entire childhood of indoctrination but now, by resolute choice, you aren’t.

You lied; you’ve never been more devout.

It was easier than getting into all the semantics, anyway. Where would you start explaining that you now spend more time than ever at worship? Not in the middle of Tony’s so-called “small” get-together of “only” seventy-five people. Certainly not a place to admit to Steve that your knees supplicate more earnestly than the most pious of priests, your throat constantly pouring the sweetest profession of faith—the name of the most divine.

Even if the two of you _were_ somewhere more private, and he was at least half as drunk as you were, it’s a bit blasphemous, Steve, that you fuck Bucky six ways to Sunday and call it religion.

It’s a hard desire to curb when he looks like _that_. Bucky’s built like a god— his arm the kind of weapon you’d happily split your tongue polishing. Strong, powerful legs. Broad shoulders like lovingly carved marble, worked between the hands of a Renaissance master, tapered sharply down to his wasp’s waist.

His hips. Lord, you could dedicate eternity naming every last inch of his hips.

Such a pretty boy. How he makes you hungry to sin.

“Bucky,” you whisper, enthralled again when he steps out from a quick shower. Smoldering and glorious, and you’re Joan of Arc constantly being descended upon by a burning archangel. Some random night, like any other night, and you’re overtaken again. Hazy with orange glow, the billowing mist makes a halo to crown him and for a second you feel blind.

Then, you feel… _hm_.

Wet.

He cautions the way you chew on your lip, eyes twinkling brightly because what else is new. You? Turned on? Bucky could be brushing his teeth and you’d start climbing him like your personal jungle gym.

“Sweetheart,” he begins warily, adjusting the towel on his hips—those beautiful, beautiful hips. “One more dinner with us swinging in late and they’re gonna stop inviting us.”

You nod along dumbly, deaf now and set on a singular mission. Crawling on your knees, you reach Bucky halfway as he tries to put an end to your pilgrimage. _Tries_ because your palms are fast over the damp fabric, fingers threading through warm fibers before landing flat against his abs, feeling up to his chest, murmuring stupidly, always so shocked at his _everything_. You graze up his wrists, his forearms, making paths of taut muscle.

“How bout after dinner?” His thumbs gently brush the swell of your breasts before he holds you back, straightening your spine when you arch into him. “Promise I’ll give it to you good later.”

“Give it to me now?”

He laughs. “You really gotta work on your negotiation skills…”

“Huh… Lemme try again: give it to me… _right_ now?”

Bucky groans in equal measures of exasperation and exhilaration when you fall back on your knees. A few more half-hearted _baby, quit it, ‘m serious, _and then he gives up completely.

“Steve’s gonna get himself in a mood_._”

“Steve’s _always_ in a mood.”

Wilted protests quickly disappear into the hollow of your cheeks, licked away by your clever tongue. He grips the back of your neck firmly, tilting your head the way he likes best, eyes flicking down to meet yours before they close. He keeps you there a little longer, his toes curling into the carpet with each bob of your head.

“Yeah, _you’re_—always in a mood, too—_uhhm_—“

And you hum in agreeance, but the sound only vibrates into his skin, making him groan louder.

Bucky’s voice is slurred, as if half drunk. “Can’t hear— _mm_— you, sweetheart…”

So you make something up to give him what he wants, that buzzing of your throat on his cock, and his thighs tighten in response, the hand on the back of your neck reflexively scrabbling to your shoulder with a hard grip.

It’s a bit counterproductive of you to be so sloppy, considering that Bucky’s freshly showered and cleaned up— the scent of his brisk body wash strong and harsh in your nose— but fucking him like it’s your job allows some insight to what he likes, and it’s easily this:

Dirty, filthy, drooling wet blowjobs. The messier the better and the faster it gets him there. Your radiant Right Hand of God, but _goddamn_ is he a little devil himself.

Bucky’s growling by the time he hauls you toward the bed, depositing your thrilled skin on the mattress firmly. Red lips meet yours with force, plush and full, nipping at the corners of your wet mouth like he’s kissing back every trace of him. He presses on across your jaw, up and down your neck. His voice is husky sweet and breathy in your ear.

“You bad, _bad_ girl.” And you start curling yourself into him, nodding for more. One of his hands is working himself, the sound of your spit slippery in his fist. “You got me all messy again.”

Your skin feels blistering and freezing at the same time, chills racing to your fingertips tightly hooked around his biceps. The outfit you put on for a nice, quaint dinner at Steve and Sharon’s too heavy now, too constricting, but he doesn’t let you take it off.

“Every morning and night not enough dick for you, is it?” Bucky brushes your hands away, taking hold of your chin and peeling your head back until you’re looking at him. His pupils are blown wide, the only thing left of his irises are two thin rings of barely there blue as he scans your face. Your brain is short-circuiting, hanging onto every syllable, every purse of his cherry lips.

He switches on and off like a light. Beautiful, soft, thoughtful one minute, all force and darkness the next. You faithfully take it all, every facet of him. Your angel boy. Your wicked soldier.

Joan of Arc was only hallucinating, but she wasn’t half as lucky as you to have conjured something half as astonishing as Bucky. Gorgeous strong jaw, bristles along his chin and cheek scrubbing noisily against your lips as he kisses you. His mouth— open and wet, sloppy against yours— hardly landing right and you’re toeing delirium by the time his fingers slide up your shirt.

Bucky pushes you down into the sheets, rucking up your skirt until it bunches around your waist. “We’re in a rush, remember?” He tucks two fingers into the elastic of your panties and yanks them to one side. Just enough. In a rush. Your thighs meet with a determined shimmy of his hips— those incredible hips— and then you’re full, so full of him.

The blood in your ears crashes against reality and bends it all sideways. Not religious like _that_, but since the first time you’d touched him, you’ve been cocksure if heaven were real, it’d be this. It’d be him.

“Everyone’s gonna know,” Bucky promises, “You stumbling in there.”

The image flashes through your addled brain, the tell-tale sign of him screwing you stupid— lips swollen, legs wobbly, outfit crumpled up, smelling like him and sex in front of all your friends.

“You want it, don’t you, want them to know you’re all mine?” He smears your wet around the sides of where he’s connected— spit, slick— up to your clit. And then he pushes you like a button, flicking the pad of his thumb upwards and grins at the way you jerk in time to it like a trained toy.

“_Bucky_,” you mewl, “_Buck._” The syllable breaks, your panting comes out in choked babbling.

He takes the back of your neck again, lowering his body over yours, faster now. Deliberately reckless and the entire bed is rocking, springs squealing under his pace.

“Oh my _god_,” you smash your brow into the junction of his shoulder, hanging on by a thread as he drives into you, on a mission to break either the bed frame or your brain, both were fine. In a rush. Can’t quit now. A little bit more. Your entire body is folded against him, insides fluttering desperately, maddeningly.

“Come,” he commands, “Come for me right now and I’ll fuck you through it, how you like. Then I’ll make you come again and we can go.”

His grip is tourniquet tight, thumb moving to the middle of your throat, pressing ever so slightly until your breath feels trapped under the swirl of his fingerprint. The curtain of his hair hangs over your face, blocking out the room going blindingly white. Your eyes shut tightly, opening only for a second to catch him panting over you, burning hot, his features flickering from utter control to trembling pleasure to something akin to frenzy.

Your vision shuffles like a deck of cards. His hands are everywhere. Eyes devouring every inch of your skin. There’s a million of him taking a million you to a million more pieces. You shatter then, clawing his back and arms, singing like a fucking choir the infinity of his name.

Bucky. Bucky. Bucky.He makes your days holy. The altar of his body. The sacrament of his sweat. He breaks you apart into something luminous.****

Religion. Not religion. Your heathen soul—whatever tiny fracture you may have—all his, forever. Now, tomorrow, at the end of the world.

So, when the two of you stumble into a nearly finished dinner, as predicted, over an hour late and in terrible disarray, Steve nearly crosses himself before promising, “I’m getting you two a goddamn chastity belt.” On the couch, Sam clicks the remote to a new channel, snapping his fingers with an offhanded, “A-fucking-men.” 

All you can do is duck your head and grin.


	24. lights up* (s.r. b.b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2k. words of just... smutty tender silly stuff. I'M BACK I GUESS. xx thanks for reading, I really appreciate it, everybody!!

You wake up in scattered shock. Knee-jerk reaction to fast hands sliding between your thighs, fingers carelessly ticking sensitive skin.

You wake up to a groggy voice, slurred with sleep and raspy-raw. “Baby,” it croaks from between your legs, “Honey, sweetheart, sugar. Please, please, _please_ let me eat your pussy.”

_Wha_—

A few disbelieving blinks as you scrabble for your bearings—can’t see shit—still dark—head throbbing.

“Oh god, I wanna _sosososo_ bad,” and then hands are between your knees, spreading your legs apart. “So… damn… tasty. Uh-huh… Come to daddy.”

Who the fuck is_—_damn it,_ Bucky._

In the dead hour of four-something when nothing should be moving so intentionally, an unsteady moan tumbles out of him when he starts groping for your ass.

“Buck!” You whisper, kicking your leg to shake him off. Grabbing the covers with one hand, you reach under with the other, swatting his head and trying to get a firm hold on him. Slippery fucking man.

He pauses for a second before his body goes limp, half hanging off the foot of the bed and you groan at his weight. Idiot boy. Two hundred pounds of horny somnambulist dropping like an anchor on your poor legs. Fiddling now with how to get him back up to his regular spot, you try to do it quietly, the warmth radiating next to your left shoulder a compelling incentive. Even with your wits barely about you, you know better than to wake—

“Whassit? Whas goin’ on?”

Steve. _Ah_.

“Nothing,” you sigh, reaching over and stroking his arm absently, one foot tapping against Bucky’s waist to urge him upward. “He’s just sleep-talking again.”

Steve makes a groggy noise of comprehension. “Sleep-talking or sleep-fucking?”

“_Just_ sleeping now. Ugh… didn’t mean to wake you.”

He’d come in late again—meetings and paperwork keeping him well after hours. Not even able to do it from home, which would have been nice. At least here you could make sure he was eating, or drinking enough water, or at least be in the presence of good company. Instead, you and Buck watched a movie, took a few rounds of shots (because he likes the taste and how you look dancing all over the coffee table), fooled around in the kitchen, and turned in around two—Steve nowhere in sight. Some jobs were Captain-Only, which meant you’d have to make peace with being useless.

That’s generally not a task that goes over well. The amount of untamed energy Bucky exudes without Steve’s guidance is… close to being categorized as a natural disaster and trying to stay up with him is always a double-edged sword. Lots of fun, sure, but he requires less sleep than you do and can finagle you into getting piss drunk with a single smirk. 

“Wish you’d been more responsible.” Bone-tired and Steve’s still bossy. His arm is heavy as it snakes over your tummy. “You _know_ he needs direction.”

“Hey, I _tried_.”

“Issat right? That why your panties’re on the counter? Shirt in the sink, too. Come home close to four and still gotta clean up after the two of you.”

His raspy breath tickles, plump lips crushed just below your ear—enough to start a chain reaction of shudders. “Go back to sleep,” you huff, embarrassed. It was only a few hours ago so your head’s still a bit fuzzy—vague memory of playful touches before hearing, _hop up, baby_, from Bucky. And you, tittering and zealous the whole way, kissing him like he’d never been kissed before.

YouTube blinking on the T.V., stuck on some ad because the streaming’s a snail’s pace from when Steve set up the internet and tried to pinch pennies at the same time. Bucky’s specially crafted “Wine, Dine, and Sixty-Nine” playlist refusing to load even half a song afterwards so neither of you could spare your neighbors from hearing _all_ the noises.

Hopefully the laughter was loudest, and not the primal fucking, or the crashing when you slipped off the counter and knocked Bucky on his ass. 

You giggle at that. Years and years together and some nights still feel brand new.

“Have fun without me?”

There’s no real jealousy in Steve’s voice, but there _is_ greed behind the question. A single night away and he acts like _he’s _never been kissed either.

Your eyes start fluttering when his fingers curl around your hipbone. _Je-sus. Hell._ It’s too late—early—for this. You grumble his name, ask him to save it for a couple more hours when your brain doesn’t feel pried free, but, Captain-Only mode activated and he’s not deterred. A bloodhound on a fresh trail.

The hand on your hip turns inward and you’re suddenly aware of him pressed against your body, that hot line of him, pulsing on your upper thigh. He tilts forward, one knee rubbing up your leg. Bucky stirs a little and makes another declaration about how he’s fit for the CEO position of Eating Your Ass, but nothing more after that.

“He do you good?” Steve wonders, apparently not giving a fuck about whether Bucky’s dead or alive down there and instead only worried about repositioning you, rolling you on your side, “That why you’re so happy to get me out of the house? So you two can fool around unchecked as much as you want?”

“Steve, you know damn well—"

His hand slips around the side of your neck, four thick fingers drumming over the ridges of your throat. “Watch your mouth,” he whispers, “before you get yourself into any more trouble.”

He gets _mean_ without enough sleep. And no one would ever guess, but other than working over some poor punching bag that’ll never see the light of day after he gets his hands on it, Captain America likes to fuck it out. You and Buck have properly come out of a few sessions barely alive, feeling like two ends of a slinky that’s taken one too many tumbles down a flight of stairs.

You squirm as he palms your bottom with his free hand, kneading the bare flesh a flimsy pair of sleeping shorts can’t cover.

“Gotta be quiet,” he tells you gently, “Can’t wake him, can we.” Christ help you. What a time to play a game. You mumble under your breath, “Do I have a choice?”

“I think you’ve already made your choice.” A prod at your _already_ sore entrance, and Steve says annoyingly convinced, “Haven’t you?”

He stills for a second when Bucky flops around on the mattress and then he starts pressing his mouth to your back, your shoulder, other hand holding you steady with expertise. It’s Steve’s favorite position when he wants to be in charge—you, writhing and turned away, usually leaned about 50 degrees and pawing at Bucky’s chest—this morning, feebly snatching sheets instead.

It doesn’t take any buildup. He’s achingly ready; you’re willingly wet. Clothes moved just enough out of the way and his two fingers slide upward, pushing barely to spread you before he quickly replaces it with something much thicker. It’s only been a few seconds. He’s too fast for you to get a word in edgewise, your brain still muddled, body cooperative.

“Huh,” Steve mumbles, slowly feeling his way into position, “A bit fucked loose, aren’t you?”

“_Steve_,” you hiss in reply, clenching up reflexively the same time mortification bursts across your scrunched- up face. “Don’t _say_ that.”

“Hush, baby.”

“I’m _trying_—”

“Try _harder_.” And he’s evil incarnate, you swear. Satan himself packaged up in the neat body of a demigod. He rolls his hips slowly until the tops of his thighs are pressed against your ass, fingers holding so tight you think he’s going to spear right into bone. “Stay still or you’re gonna knee Buck in the cheek.”

You twist your head around, instead, shaking your chin free from his hand, hoping that once he sees your pitiful expression, he’ll find it in his heart to maybe not pound you into oblivion with bells on. Of course, Steve’s not looking anywhere but down the line of your back and further to where he’s opening you up, bottom lip tucked into his teeth.

You constantly rib him about how he’s making up for all the years he spent with the two working eyes of a mole so now he’ll break his neck to watch. Bucky’s confirmed it multiple times to Steve’s chagrin, cackling at the way Steve goes purple defending himself. You love these stories they tell and retell; you try to spend most your time making up for all those years you weren’t there to find out.

Who isn’t in this relationship? Violently horny like teenagers, the three of you, spending every idle hour mishandling for each other like it’s the first time. Years and years and it still feels brand new. Excitement primeval like animals in heat, apparently instinctual enough for one of you to do it in his sleep.

The bed’s rocking surprisingly moderately for Steve’s usual pace, and it’s a bit heartwarming to know that he’s doing it because he really _doesn’t _want to wake Bucky, but he ramps up his game. He starts whispering again, meaner, _hotter_, the damn mouth on Steve Rogers continuing to give you hell this early morning.

He pinches your nipple hard, letting you gasp at the brief sting before he goes back up to your chin, your mouth, and then he puts the entire hand over it. “Quiet. Not another fucking word out of you. Gotta teach you how to behave this morning, don’t I?” He’s working himself up, working you over, even pulling you back on him by the hips and then wiggling you up and down on him like he’s adjusting you on a saddle. Mother_fucker_.

Your toes curl, knees grinding, legs folding up to get simultaneously closer and away from him and it feels—it feels _so _excruciatingly good—the effortless glide of his cock, the burn of friction dragging itself out the more you wriggle. Whatever indelicate sounds falling out of your mouth are getting mashed back in, Steve ramming himself into your body, shaking your brain further loose.

He’s probably louder than he intends to be—you know how he gets when he’s close— bombs could be dropping twelve feet away and Steve Rogers would hear nothing but the roar of his own wanting, chasing it until he crashes into bits. You’re chasing too, both hands clamped around his wrist, arching your back to near breaking.

“Yeah,” he rasps out, “That’s it, that’s good, baby. _Ugnn_—back up on me, stay—_right_ there.”

More uneven jerking, he releases your face and starts rubbing your clit, saying, _you like it like this? Like me givin’ it to you good like this?_ And you’re shaking in his arms, the both of you tipping over the edge.

“I wasn’t serious,” Steve says later after a few moments, lips all soft and gentle on your neck, rather than fierce like before, “Bout you bein’—” you can feel him shrugging, “Y’know… _fucked__loose_.” He whispers the last part like it’s a sin.

You snort, “You turning decent on me? After railing me to death?”

“You sound pretty lively to me.” He pokes your side, “I just… woke up and remembered how much I missed you last night.”

“I’m not going anywhere. You got both of us here—_shit_!”

“Steveeeeee,” and the sound of it slaps both you back to reality. Sleep-smashed, more tipsy than any alcohol could make him, Bucky’s giggles break the steady pattern of muffled conversation. His vibranium hand pats around for a new destination, undeterred by the disruption of his previous mission.

You can’t believe it. He’s _still_ asleep.

“Stevie,” Bucky mewls again, “Lemme— suck your dick, sweetheart.”

What a menace. Your shoulders start quivering as you poorly hold it back, _pfffftppblffpt’s_ kickstarting Steve into a tizzy right alongside you.

Bursting laughter from the two of you finally wakes him up. Bucky yelps once, twice, flailing like a cat caught unawares and rolls himself right off the goddamn bed. Two hundred pounds of newly conscious pervert wallops the hardwood floor and you’re sure the entire apartment complex—if they didn’t hear the ruckus last night—_certainly _heard it this morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! Thanks for reading :)


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